The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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Skrykalian's Tale

Through mental torture, Thuringwethil corrupts the siblings, driving them nearly mad and completing her insane desire for a family.  Eventually, eons pass and the siblings find themselves approached by the Lord of Gifts.  Warning, the next couple of chapters are going to be pretty dark.

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Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Lairë, Year of the Sun 465

 

Watching her mother fade, year after year, was heartbreaking.  After three years, Irimë began to mutter to herself with occasional screaming outbursts.  The woman who raised Alquanessë was barely recognizable, sitting in filth, scratching at crawling insects.  The elf, now known as Skrykalian, could only look away now.

There were times that she fought to free herself but the will and power of Thuringwethil was too much. Her own psyche was pounded by waves of hate and anger from the vampire.  That, along with lust, desire and the hunger for blood.  What was worse was her siblings being brought to the cell, one by one.  Finculion now lay against a wall, chained by his arms.  He had been turned into a vampire years ago now and was renamed, Naranantur.  Like Skrykalian, he fought and put on a brave face at first, but when his wife, Ectelissë and their toddler son were drained of blood before him, he was broken.  He lay in a heap, sobbing with his mother and sister as Thuringwethil transformed him.  He had not spoken in a year now.  The vampire made it a point to let Irimë know that her brother, Fingolfin, was crushed into mud by the great lord Morgoth, king of the earth and that she would lose her family one day soon.

Tindómeno was stronger and lasted nearly a year, fighting and cursing the vampire.  But it was only a matter of time.  Watching his mother devolve into madness and Skrykalian tear other prisoners apart to drink their blood shattered his spirit and he willingly bared his neck to the vampire.  He became Balisimur.

Skrykalian found it more and more difficult to cry.  She started to crave time and attention from Thuringwethil.  The vampire cradled her head as she lay in her chains.  “If you continue to behave, my sweet, I’ll let you fly one day.  You will soar above the night clouds with me.  Our family will soon be complete, my daughter, and we will be whole.”

“Yes, mother.”

Thuringwethil grasped her face.  “Thank you, Alquanessë.”

She looked at the vampire curiously, cocking her head.  “Who…who is Alquanessë?”

The vampire smiled broadly, showing fangs in her bat face.  “She’s nobody, my dear Skrykalian.  Nobody.”  Thuringwethil turned and pointed to the iron cell door.  She walked to the other prisoners and touched their faces.  “I have a gift for everyone.  Come, let us open your present.”  The door opened and wolves that stood on two legs pushed Sercë to the ground.  The elf was bound in chains with a sack over her head.  Thuringwethil pulled the sack off and held her head up, showing the room whom she had captured.  Irimë continued crying, biting her knee hard to ease her mental anguish.  Skrykalian trembled for a moment and stifled a tear before becoming still again.

Sercë looked around, seeing the others.  “Mother! Look at me!  Are you alright?  Alquanessë? Talk to me!  What’s happening?”

Thuringwethil did a pirouette in the middle of the cell, giggling like a little girl.  “There, my family is complete.  I will leave you to get reacquainted for this joyous reunion.” She walked over to Irimë and yanked her head up by her filthy hair.  “And once my children are completely loyal to me, they will devour you and all trace and memory of you will be gone.  Once drained, I will give your rotting corpse to our wolves.”

The vampire stood and glided back to Skrykalian.  She ran a clawed finger down the girl’s bare body and the girl tilted her head back and sighed.  The werewolves chained Sercë to the wall and they departed, the iron door slamming shut.

Sercë flopped around like a boned fish, trying to stand, but she kept falling over.  “Mother!  Alquanessë! Talk to me!  What happened to you?”

Irimë just continued to weep, rocking back and forth.  Skrykalian looked at the newcomer.  “There is no one here by that name,” she said in a bland monotone.

“Alquanessë!  It’s me!  It’s your sister!  What is wrong with you?”

“There is no one here by that name.”

 

Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Quellë, Year of the Sun 465

 

Thuringwethil leaned down over Sercë and cradled her head.  The elf’s open eyes were blank, and she hung limp in the vampire’s arms. “It’s time to make our family whole,” she said as she stroked the elf’s black hair.

Skrykalian watched impassively as Thuringwethil plunged her fangs into her sister’s neck.  Irimë screamed weakly, beating her head against the wall.  “Take me. Take me,” she groaned.  “Leave my family.  Take me.”

As before, Thuringwethil tore the flesh on her own wrist with her fangs and let her blood drip into Sercë’s mouth.  The elf drank thirstily, and the vampire turned the drips into a steady flow of blood. “I name you Blogath, the greatest of my children.”  She looked at Irimë, her bat features twisted into a satisfied grin.  “She will turn soon and then your family will no longer exist. Then it will be time to erase you. You will feed my children.”

Watching the blood flow and hearing that they will soon feed on Irimë made Skrykalian’s mouth water. She could smell the blood and could practically taste it.  Thuringwethil would bring her a prisoner from time to time, but it was never enough to satisfy her.  Thuringwethil moved over to her and took a nearby bucket of water and a sponge.  The vampire soaked the sponge and began washing Skrykalian’s hair, cleaning off the years of filth and dirt.  Still chained, the elf could not resist even if she wanted to. The vampire rinsed the sponge, turning the water brown.  She then washed Skrykalian’s face, cleaning off mud and dried tears.

“Oh, there is someone under all of that,” the vampire cooed.  “I was beginning to think you were just a pile of mud.”  She ran the tip of her finger along Skrykalian’s lips. “Just as beautiful now as when I found you, the fairest of my children.”  Thuringwethil worked her way down the neck, chest and back, her movements loving and gentle.  Rivulets of muddy water dripped down the elf’s body onto the stone floor and down a drain.  Next, were her legs and feet and the sponge then moved up the inside of her thigh.  Skrykalian tried to resist, to close her legs, but she could not fight against her mother.  She closed her eyes and let it happen.  She wanted it now.  And she wanted the blood.

She lay back, panting, spent after Thuringwethil’s playtime.  The vampire smiled down at her.  “I love making you sing and dance, my child.  I know that you are a magnificent singer and dancer.  I have seen it in your mind.  Your talent belongs to me now.  You are mine in body, mind and soul.”  The vampire touched the chains on Skrykalian’s legs, and they fell off.  “A token of my trust, dear daughter.”  Then, she was rolled over onto her stomach and the chains binding her arms behind her fell off.  “There, nice and clean.  You will never be dirty again with me.  You will never be cold or hungry again.”  She embraced Skrykalian’s head and held her tight against her chest.

“Thank you, mother.  You are most kind.”

The vampire stroked her hair lovingly and hummed some soft tune.  “I have business with my beloved Sauron.  We have an elf bitch and her dog to deal with.  All of our wolves will come with me as this is of the utmost importance.  I trust you, my daughter, so I leave you in charge.  You will watch your siblings for me until I return.  Make sure Blogath turns nicely.  Then, we will feast on that woman there.”

Skrykalian massaged her wrists and ankles and nodded obediently.  “Yes, mother.  I look forward to it.”

“And you will love this, dear,” the vampire said.  “Focus on your back.”

The elf concentrated and it felt like something was growing out of her shoulder blades.  White, feathered wings like those of a swan, sprouted and unfurled and she shook them out.  “Amazing.  I love it, mother.”

“Excellent, my little swan,” the vampire cooed and then caressed her face.  “It only enhances your beauty.  I will return soon with more meat for you and your siblings.  Be patient now.”  She twirled and then became a swarm of bats that flew out of the window.  The howl of wolves followed.

Skrykalian stood there, immobile for a few minutes and then slumped to the ground and started to weep.  Hearing the quiet sobs of her mother, she looked over and then ran to her.  She looked out of the window and could see Thuringwethil far away now with a dozen werewolves running after her.  She shook the crying woman.  “Mother! It’s me!  Alquanessë!  Mother! Listen to me!  I’m getting you all out of here.”

Irimë’s eyes were glassy and unfocused.  “Kill me, monster.  Kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

“No, mother, it’s me!  Look at me!  I’m going to save you.”  With vampiric strength, she ripped the chains out of the wall and then did the same for her siblings.  She carried her mother down the stairs to a stable, followed by the others.  The tower was empty as the werewolves had gone to fight for Sauron.  She put her mother on a horse and opened the gate.  Irimë weakly grasped her daughter’s face.  “Alquanessë, it is you.  I always knew it was you.  You’re still my child.  Come with me. All of you.”

Skrykalian’s gut roiled, and tears mixed with blood ran down her face.  Pain, sorrow, regret and shame tore through her mind but also hope.  She shook her head.  “We cannot, mother.  We are not who we were.  We are of the darkness now.  No one will welcome us.  Save yourself.  We will see you in our dreams and we will be a family again one day in the Halls of Mandos.”

Irimë reached out and touched each of her children.  “We will meet again.  I know it. Sercë, the leader.  Tindómeno, the strong.  Finculion, the brave and Alquanessë, my little swan.  I shall wait for you to return to me unto the breaking of the world.”

Skrykalian bit her lip hard, tasting blood.  “Mother, go southwest to Brithombar or Eglarest.  Do not stop.  Morgoth will not cease his war until we are all slain or turned into monsters.  Be well.  Be healed and remember us.  Now go, save yourself.”  She slapped the horse on its hindquarters, and it sped off into the sunrise.  She began to tremble as she watched the horse fade into the distance.  Then, Skrykalian’s strength left her, and she sagged to her knees and beat her fists on the ground, letting out a shriek that tore the morning air, fading to a pitiful wail. She felt three hands on her shoulder and knew that she was now safe.  After a time, she raised her head towards the sun and stood, feeling the warmth on her face.  It had been ten years since she had seen its light.  “My brothers and sister.  We are free. Come, let us be away from here.”

They formed a circle and put their hands together in the middle like they had done growing up.  Here they were again, the proud grandchildren of Finwë.  Then, each of them unfurled wings from their backs and they leapt into the air to take flight.

 

Eregion, Gwaron, The Second Age 1500

 

The years turned into decades, which turned into centuries, which became millennia.  About seventeen hundred years had passed since the siblings escaped Tol-in-Gaurhoth and found their freedom.  They flew east to hide from the forces of Morgoth and inevitable wrath of Thuringwethil, who thought her control so complete that she couldn’t envision her victims having free will.  They resumed using their old names in defiance of the evil that had changed them.

Sercë felt it first that Thuringwethil had perished, apparently slain by a hound, her skin torn off to form a disguise for the elf maiden, Luthien.  The siblings embraced, shedding tears of joy.  They were now truly free.  Together, they made a pact to always be a family, to only feed on the creatures of darkness and to live their lives in seclusion, away from events that would shape Middle Earth.  From the night sky, they hunted orcs and evil men to sate their thirst.  They watched from afar as their cousin, Fingon, fell in battle, as Nargothrond and Gondolin fell and as Beleriand was flooded in the War of Wrath.

They watched as the race of men rose from an island kingdom across the sea and as those men built cities along the coast.  They watched as the Noldor created a new land with a new High King, Gil-Galad, the son of Fingon and also their nephew.  A great city arose, Ost-in-Edhil, the jewel of the Noldor.  They looked down from the clouds, proud of the achievements of their people.  Through this time, they were always wondering what had become of their mother but knowing in their hearts that she was alive and waiting for them.  Maybe there was a cure for the siblings, and they could all be reunited.  Still, they were together, and they were content.  That is, until the shadow grew again.

In the caverns that they had hollowed out to make their home, music, song and dance had reentered their lives. Alquanessë’s talents entertained the siblings, and a sense of joy seeped into their new home.  But the untold years wore on them and there was always a desire for more and the hunger for blood never went away.

One day, Sercë received a visitor, a man in a mask with a dark cloak.  When the man had departed, she called a council of the siblings.  They gathered in a chamber with polished walls and luxurious furniture, an oak table and plush chairs with red padded seats.  Clad in a simple white robe, Sercë waved her hand and lights glowed in glass receptacles, illuminating the room.  The oldest sibling smiled.  “I think I have good news,” she said cheerfully.  “I just met with a messenger from the Lord of Gifts. He offers us a cure.”

Finculion looked at her sideways, his lips pursed.  “Sister, no disrespect, but how did this messenger find us?  No one has bothered us in over a thousand years.”

“I’ve been putting out feelers about a cure.  I sent messages to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their masters of lore and they brought it to the attention of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts.”

Alquanessë narrowed her eyes. “You did this without consulting the family?”

Sercë splayed her hands out and flared her nostrils as if irritated.  “Yes.  I am the leader of this family, and I would like to know if there is a cure for us.”

The younger sister sighed. “I would like to know too, but we should have all known what you had planned.”  A cure?  It was something that passed through her mind, but she never held out any hope.  She could barely remember being “only” an elf. And the strength, speed and ability to fly was addictive…as was the blood.

Tindómeno waved his hands to get their attention.  “Listen to our older sister.  She actually has a plan.  It’s better than sitting here in this cave for centuries.”

Finculion shook his head. “Didn’t we make a pact to remain secluded from the world?”

Sercë put her palms on the table and leaned forward.  “But we already trade with the elves and the dwarves.  Look at the fine things that we have.  Are you not ready to enjoy life again after so long?  Have we not earned a place back with our people?  Are you not lonely?”

Finculion put his head down and trembled for a moment.  “Yes. I miss my family.  The one Thuringwethil destroyed.”

Alquanessë put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.  She understood.  A deep loneliness ate away at her heart and she longed to feel someone’s touch other than her own.  It was a hunger that Thuringwethil had planted within her.  She nodded.  “Yes, I am lonely.  I would like to search for mother.  I know that she is alive somewhere and did not go into the West.  I would like to have a family of my own someday.”

Sercë smiled again. “While we can pass as normal elves for a short time, anyone with any insight will know that we are vampires.  And if we are as we are now, would our people not kill us?  Would we kill our own mother?  That monster, Thuringwethil, implanted that thought in our minds.”  She pointed at each of the siblings, her face full of confidence.  “I propose a new pact.  We find the cure.  We find our mother.  Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, offers this to us.  He has access to ancient lore from the time of Morgoth.  It was Morgoth’s creature that did this to us.  It will be Morgoth’s knowledge that sets us free.”

Alquanessë liked what she was hearing and nodded her consent.  “As always, you are our leader, my sister.  I will follow you.”

“Wonderful!  I have already invited Annatar to meet with us here. He works tirelessly within the halls of the Mírdaithrond, teaching the Noldor his craft.  He plans to forge rings of power for the betterment of all people.”

“Uhh, so when is this meeting?” asked Finculion.

Sercë gave an embarrassed expression, one eye narrowed and her lip curled up.  “Umm, now.  He’s on his way here already.”

Finculion blew out a long breath and shook his head.  There was still an air of skepticism around him.  “Just who is this…this Lord of Gifts?  Do we know anything about Annatar?”

“According to my contacts in the Mírdaithrond, Annatar is a Maia who studied under Aulë.  He now brings his knowledge and his gifts to the world. You have to trust me on this one. He will bring us everything that we want.”

Alquanessë found a rare bit a fight against her sister.  “This sounds too good to be true.”  Then, she put her head down as the sibling hierarchy took hold again.  “But I trust you, sister.  We will see what Annatar offers us.”

Sercë lifted her nose and sniffed the air.  “Good, because he’s here now.  We need to be together on this and I need your support,” she said with a sense of finality.  They went to the entrance of the caverns and Sercë waved her hand to move the stone doorway into the wall.  As the doorway opened, they could see a tall man in black robes with a staff that was topped in a golden crescent moon with an orb in the center.  He had long blond hair that was so light it was almost silver. His face was narrow, almost boyish with near perfect features.  He was truly godlike with an aura of power and strength.

Annatar bowed low with a warm smile.  “I thank you for the invitation and the welcome.  I know that we will do great things together.”

The siblings stepped aside to let him in, and they walked to the conference room where they all sat.  Annatar laid a pouch on the table and pushed it across to Sercë.  “A token of my friendship.  Call it a gift,” he said.

The oldest sibling opened the pouch and removed four vials of liquid.  “What is this?”

“It is…the answer to your question.  But I warn you…it is only temporary.  I discovered this during my research for you, but it is only part of the solution.  The rest of the cure remains to be found.  For a short time, you will be as you were but retain your strength and speed.”

Alquanessë cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “So, you know what we are?”

“Yes.  When your sister made contact with the Mírdaithrond I began some research.  I found reference to a Thuringwethil, a messenger of Sauron.  The lore is now obscure after so long, but it pointed me in the direction of a cure.  With the limited information, I was able to concoct this.  Please,” he said, splaying his hands out as an invitation.

Sercë handed out the vials and Alquanessë uncorked hers.  “Why are you helping us?” the younger sister asked, genuinely curious.  “And whatever became of Sauron?”

Annatar chuckled. “Excellent questions, my dear.  Your sister told our emissary of the affliction that you have.  I have been sent to this Middle-Earth as a representative of the Valar.  My mission is to help the free peoples, and to heal those whom Morgoth’s evil has harmed.  As to your second question, Sauron…he has…Sauron is no more.”

“Was he destroyed in the cataclysm of Beleriand?”

The Lord of Gifts nodded. “I believe that he was, along with all of Morgoth’s beasts…yourselves not included.”

Sercë uncorked her vial. “Say no more.  Brothers, sister, let us try this and see for ourselves.” She poured the liquid into her mouth and swallowed as did the others.

At first, Alquanessë felt nothing.  She began to frown with disappointment, but then her body felt light as if she were floating.  It was like the bath that Thuringwethil gave her when she was covered in years of filth. The dark, dirty feeling of her affliction fell away and the hunger for blood evaporated.  She felt normal…whole.  She took a deep breath, and it was like her first time breathing air again.  “I…I feel…I can’t describe it but it’s wonderful.”

Annatar rose and came over to put his hands gently on her shoulders.  He began to massage them, his hands warm and comforting.  “Yes, yes it is, my dear.  I am so sorry that it will fade shortly.  With the limited knowledge that I have this is the best that I can do. I am so sorry.  But together, we will find what you seek.”

True to his word, the feeling of being clean and pure began to fade and the familiar hunger returned and that dark place in her heart grew again.  She would do anything to feel clean once more.  A vision flashed in her head of a husband, children, happy squeals and warm embraces.  Did this come from him?  Was he showing her what she wanted to see?  She sighed as a tear rolled down her cheek to her lips.  They tasted like blood again.

Sercë smacked the palm of her hand down on the table.  “We are convinced.  How must we proceed?”

Annatar moved around the table, shaking everyone’s hand.  “I am glad for our friendship, and you will find my friendship fruitful.  But I will need something in return.  The vials that I prepared were not inexpensive and I poured much of my energy into them for you.”  He stopped at Alquanessë and grasped her hands.  “Ah, the fairest of Irimë’s children.  Are you ready for what comes next, my little swan?”

Sercë nodded.  “We understand and we are prepared to do what you need of us to make this happen.”  The siblings formed a circle and put their hands together in the middle. “To hope and to our new friendship with the Lord of Gifts.”

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Chapter End Notes

I want to show why Skrykalian is so seductive in her approach and the tragedy behind the Blood-Wights.  We'll take a look at Eregion of the Second Age in the next chapters and see the tie in with The Court of Ardor.  Again, warning as it will be pretty dark.