A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 1- Círdan

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Círdan was close to despairing. The battle had gone ill for him, with the orcs driving his forces swiftly back to Eglarest and Brithombar, where he sat now, besieged.

“Elu, where are you?” he whispered under his breath, like he did every time he looked over the ramparts of the fortress these days.

That his cousin had not yet come to his aid frightened him, because it could only mean two things- either Elu had lost his own battle with the Orcs, or indeed he deemed the situation hopeless and would not lead his people to slaughter. Círdan understood, he truly did, and yet could not help resenting it. On the other hand, Elu knew as well as he himself did that the orcs had no chance of breaking through the defences of Eglarest and Brithombar, and that the Falathrim were thus safe for the time being, even if the siege seemed unlikely to end anytime soon. That, of course, was a third possibility- that Elu himself was now under siege in Menegroth. Círdan hoped not, for unlike his cities, Menegroth had no sea accessible that could provide its inhabitants with food. But whatever the reason, Elu’s forces had as yet not reached the Falas, which meant that Círdan had no other choice but to stay put, and watch the loathsome orcs scurrying around just out of reach of their arrows. All the more startling it was, therefore, when one of the foul creatures stepped forth -by the looks of it something like a captain- and demanded with a loud voice that Círdan talk to him.

“Hail Círdan, lord of the Falas!” the captain shouted in obvious mockery. “We have a bargain to offer to ya!”

Círdan laughed mirthlessly. A bargain. Of course.

“Your lord does not bargain.” he shouted back, putting all the contempt he could muster into those words.

The orc, however, ignored Círdan’s objections, going on as if there had been no interruption.

“Get yerself and yer people gone and we shall let ya pass safely. There are some maggoty isles for ya out at sea that we don’t like. But we do like Beleriand.”

“Aye…” Círdan mocked  “…you let us pass safely. I am sure you will. Well, thank you, but tell your lord no, thank you!”

The orc sneered.

“He said ya’d say that. Well then, maybe we have something to make ya rethink!”

The ramparts were suddenly filled with the noise of the watching Falathrim drawing their breath as the orcs dragged a naked elf before the gates by the hair, and their gasps of terror as they recognised him.

“They have got the king…”

Círdan held his breath, physically unable to draw air into his lungs. So that was their true purpose, trying to draw him out. And oh, what terrible irony to have his question about Elu’s whereabouts answered so. He had never, ever, wanted to have it answered at all if said answer was ‘in the enemy’s clutches’.

Círdan watched almost against his will as they jerked his cousin into an upright position for everyone to see, the pity and grief he felt ripping at his heart. The orcs had bound Elu’s hands behind his back, and there were burns and slashes all across his body that spoke of the torture he must have undergone ere they had led him here. Also, as Elu had made no attempt to stand or move his legs at all, Círdan strongly suspected that he could not, due to injuries to his legs or indeed his spine.
Then the orc that held him up put a knife to his throat, leering.

“No!”

Círdan was not aware of shouting out, he had not even realised that he must have drawn breath after all.

“Pity…” sneered the orc, speaking as if Círdan’s anguished cry had been the answer to his former suggestion. “I shall be almost sad to end it already. This one has been a lot of fun to play with!”

Círdan was shaking. All he wanted to do was run out of the gates himself to try and save Elu, whom he loved so deeply. As if his cousin had heard his thoughts though, he called to back to Círdan, who was surprised to hear his voice quite steady.

“Whatever they do to me, stay where you are, Círdan!”

“Silence!”

Círdan watched in horror as the orc slid the blade across Elu’s throat, as blood spilled from the wound, running down his cousin’s bare chest. Yet the strike had not been true, nothing but a foul jest to torture them all. He stared at Elu, who had betrayed no outward sign of pain, or maybe he was so numbed with the horror of his torture that he indeed did not feel it anymore.

“I thought ye Elves had compassion. Not so much, I see!”

For one heartbeat, Círdan suggested shooting the orc, or indeed Elu. But the first would be to no avail and the latter he could not bring himself to, not even had Elu begged him to, which in any case he had not. So Círdan was confined to watch in terror as they went on cutting his cousin, one slash after the other, across his chest, across his abdomen, along his shoulders and arms.

Elu stayed still and silent throughout his torture, allowing no sound to escape his lips- a quiet, stubborn battle of wills that he could not win, and that Círdan moreover deemed very stupid. Nothing could be gained by this exercise of self-control but to wear himself out even faster, and to push the orcs to yet crueler means of torture- like dousing Elu’s wounds in some clear liquid that Círdan heavily suspected to be some sort of spirit, for example. He wanted to cover his ears, everything that would prevent him from hearing Elu cry out in pain at last, but he could not, and nor could he block out the orcs’ cheers and laughter at having tipped their victim over his breaking point.

But someone else seemed to have reached their breaking point, too. Círdan heard a distant clap of thunder, and felt a sudden wind pick up, and knew instantly that this was no coincident. The orcs looked around in discomfort, becoming restless as the waves came crashing against the pier only moments laters, spraying even the orcs on the other side of the city with droplets of water. They feared the water, Círdan knew, Morgoth feared the water, for he feared Ulmo’s power there. Was this indeed the Vala’s doing? He would have put his bet rather on Ossë, for Ossë knew and loved Elu, and such a tempest was very much down his lane. But Ossë had power only over the sea, so maybe… Círdan desperately wanted to believe this to be Ulmo’s wrath, for that would mean that they were not abandoned, not forgotten in their hour of need.

“Please!” he muttered, as the first raindrops fell around them.

Soon, the rain was so heavy that it became almost impossible to see, and the wind so fierce that Círdan gripped the ramparts tightly to keep standing upright, and the orcs’ disquiet turned to open panic. He could not entirely blame them, either, for such a tempest was rare and formidable even for him, who had lived by the sea for millennia.

When his warriors were starting to flee all around him, the orc-captain let go of Elu’s hair at last with a snarl, causing Elu to fall forward onto his face. Círdan had no time to make up his mind about whether or not this was an improvement, he did not even have time to wince at his cousin hitting the ground hard, because as soon as Elu’s body touched the ground, the orc-captain drove his spear right through Elu’s lower back, pinning him firmly to the ground.

“Save our meal for later.” he sneered before he, too, retreated.

Círdan’s tears mingled with the droplets of rain on his cheeks as he sobbed helplessly, looking down upon his fallen cousin. Elu had not stirred at all, which lead Círdan to hope that he might indeed have lost consciousness for good before he was being impaled. He hoped so, at least. But he felt sick, sick at the implication of the orc’s last words, and still sicker because he could do nothing to help the situation. Nothing at all. Drawing them out was what the orcs had wanted- and he was not going to give them that satisfaction. Not if the only good that was to be gained was the retrieving of a body, for surely Elu could not survive the hurts inflicted upon him?

“I will get him!”

Startled, Círdan looked around at of his archers, and knew in the moment that their eyes met that his man would not be swayed from his decision.

“If they come back, if this is a trap, shoot me! I do not fear Mandos, nor will I make them a pass into our city. But if I can, I will not let them defile our king any further, either. He does not deserve this. We do not deserve this!”

Círdan pondered this for a moment, his heart heavy. He did not want to lose any of his men, and yet so longed for this mission to come to a good ending, to give his cousin a proper funeral. Or at the very least prevent the orcs from doing as they had threatened and devouring the body.

“Go then with my leave! But be quick! And remember- saving your own life is more important than saving even the king’s body from mutilation.”

The archer nodded grimly, then made his way down to the gates at a run, and darted out of the heavily guarded front gate only moments later, with his brothers-in-arms standing with their bows drawn, ready to shoot any orc approaching. Glad to have an excuse for not watching, Círdan too made his way down to the gates, dreading what he would find when he reached them. It was at the very moment that he reached the doors that he heard his archer’s anguished cry for help, and a heartbeat later, Círdan realised with mingled shock and relief that he did not call out for help for himself, and that the gates were already being locked behind him with no orc even close. It seemed that the raging sea did truly hold them at bay.

“He is alive!”

The face of his archer was pale with shock as he looked Círdan in the eye, who knew not what to feel, relief or just plain terror. He had seen what the orcs had done to his cousin and truly could not decide on whether he would have actually hoped for him to live still. Trembling, he knelt down beside Elu, who had his hands still bound behind his back, the wounds the spear had inflicted upon him bleeding heavily, his silver hair covering his face. Círdan ripped his own cloak off and covered his cousin quickly. He knew he needed to pull it back again to examine him, but still it felt more dignifying to cover him for the moment at least. As his hand touched Elu’s skin, Círdan flinched, noting how cold he was, yet also unmistakably feeling him shiver, whether from cold or pain Círdan could not tell.

“Go and get yourself dry and fed. You have done me a great favour, and I will honour your bravery once…”

The words caught in his throat. Once what?

Nonetheless, his archer nodded gratefully, and with a bow allowed himself to be lead away. Círdan watched him go, steeling himself for the task ahead. Mental images flashed before his eyes, of long lost shores and the warmth of his father’s body as he sat on his lap, and of the bundle of blankets that his aunt carefully placed in his arms.

No. He could not allow his mind to wander now, least of all wander to this moment. He had work to do.

Carefully, he drew the cloak back a little, and started to examine Elu. His entire torso, arms and legs were covered in dreadful burns and in cuts that ran in seeming endless lines over his skin, giving the injuries the horrible impression of some fell artwork. Also, Círdan had been right, every bone in his cousin’s lower body was indeed broken, but it was not until he untied Elu’s hands that he finally betrayed the sobs that had wanted to escape his throat all along. It was with the utmost terror that he gazed at Elu’s right hand, which was missing thumb, index- and middle finger, the wounds starting to bleed again now that the bindings had been loosened. He refrained from swearing loudly with some difficulty, deciding that comforting Elu was more important just now than his own wrath, but as Círdan tenderly stroked back Elu’s hair, his stomach churned- they had cut off the tip of Elu’s left ear as well.

“Elu… you are safe. I am with you now!” he reassured his cousin desperately, uncertain whom he was trying to comfort more, really, Elu or himself.

As it was, he had been so sure that he would not get any sort of reaction that he almost yelped when Elu opened his eyes.

“You should not have done this!” Elu whispered. “’’twas not worth the risk.”

Blood was blistering from the corner of his mouth and even as Círdan watched, Elu closed his eyes again, though he was rather sure that he was still conscious.

“Get him to the healers’ rooms. Do what you can for him, but first and foremost, do everything in your power to ease his pain as much as possible! He must not be subject to any more suffering.”

Trying to keep his own hands from shaking, Círdan watched his people carry their king away with the uttermost care. What he really wanted to do was go after them, to be with Elu in what he strongly suspected to be his final moments, but duty commanded otherwise. The storm, and with it the momentary absence of orcish assaults, posed an opportunity to reinforce the battlements and gates, and talk to his men about their observations and concerns. Such an opportunity was too direly needed to be wasted. And then as soon as the storm settled, he must leave Eglarest and sail to Brithombar, to see how things were there. Or at least that had been his plan before Elu had been dragged half-dead before his gates.

Surprisingly, Círdan managed to distract himself quite well over the next couple of hours, but that only made the dread of having to face the grim truth about his cousin’s condition worse when the head of his healers finally rounded him up.

“My lord?”

Círdan raised his head, and very deliberately put back the arrow he had just been examining. He must not forget now that he was lord, and in charge. His own pain had to stay his own.

“I bring news of the king, and I fear you will not like them!”

He nodded. He had never expected good news.

“His injuries are severe.”

“I know.” Círdan said, wondering whether severe was a euphemism for fatal.

“It might still be that with much time and effort, his wounds could be mended, at least so that he might live. There is no way of truly healing him, he would very likely never regain any movement in his legs, and much less ever walk again, and I doubt that he has much function left in his right hand. But even if he should recover as much as we could hope for, there would never be a chance to undo the damage inflicted upon his spirit. He was tortured beyond what I thought an elf could survive, and I am not talking about physical pain alone. They… oh, ‘tis is a crime almost too terrible to speak aloud, but they very likely raped him, and more than once. He could not tell us and we did but clean him, but… well. One does not forget the signs if one has once seen them, as I have back at Cuiviénen. I never dreamed I would see such an atrocity again.”

Círdan whimpered, he could do nothing to prevent it. Again, he momentarily looked down at the tiny baby in his arms, safe and warm in his blankets. But this was too much, he had to cut these imagines out, he still needed to function.

“How… how can anyone do such a thing, even the vile creatures of Bauglir?” he said aloud, trying with all his might to keep his composure.

And how had Elu managed to survive it?

He got his answer, in more direct phrasing than he would have preferred, with the healer’s next words.

”It is said that this is how orcs are created, prevented by the might of the Shadow from leaving their bodies behind. That the king escaped this fate seems to me to be due only to his knowing Valinor.”

Again, Círdan nodded. He felt numb, even though he had known this deep down all along.

“Will you allow him to be brought to my chamber? So he might see and hear the sea?” he asked tentatively.

The healer contemplated this for a moment ere she spoke again.

“Moving him will be excruciating.”

“You have done everything, have you not? To ease…”

“Of course. But there is only so much we can do. Still, you know him best, lord. And if this is what you deem in his best interest, I shall not question your decision.”

For a moment, Círdan reconsidered. Was it truly worth the pain? Was it not wiser to just order Elu to be given every sedative -lethal or not- they could lay their hand on, and let him pass in his sleep? Surly, the safety of Mandos’ Halls was what Elu must long for in his state. But then the memory of their childhood, of the day that his aunt had placed his newborn cousin in his arms, of the love and will to protect that Círdan had felt even as a tiny elfling, fought its way to the surface of his thoughts again, much though Círdan battled to keep it down.

No. Letting Elu die alone was not an option.

“I do. Have him be brought to my chambers, and I will join you there in a moment!” he therefore told the healer, who nodded and sighed, looking away from Círdan and out over the sea.

“Poor lad. He has been crying for his wife and daughter a lot in his delirium when we tended to his wounds. Nay, I should not call the king that, forgive me, Lord Círdan, I meant no disrespect. It is just… having known both of you as children… I still see him as this shy boy sometimes, and today, I might well have had this child again on my hands.”

Círdan smiled despite all the sadness he felt. He had forgotten that she had indeed been there already in his childhood. It had simply stopped mattering as time had worn on, who had been where or who was older. In fact, when Elu had established his realm with Círdan as his mightiest lord, they had indeed been very careful not to slip back into the hierarchy of birth-order that had been so rigid at Cuiviénen. Age did not matter beyond childhood anyway, safe perhaps between siblings or cousins in mockery or when old rites were practised, and hierarchy in general was of little importance here in Eglador. Everyone acknowledged Elu as their king and then fared as they saw fit, be it in Menegroth or under his, Círdan’s, lordship by the sea or Denethor’s in Ossiriand, or in clans roaming the northern lands freely. What bliss they truly had lived in, Círdan only became aware of now as they had lost it.

“Just so it is spoken aloud- we agree to not try and prevent King Elu’s death any longer?”

“Yes.”

The word burned in his throat.

“It may take him a while to be able to… let go. And I would that you stayed with him until the very end, lord.”

“Of course.”

They had laid Elu on his bed by the time Círdan entered his bedchamber, having made sure he would not be called away unless it was absolutely unavoidable. He thanked his healers, then carefully sat down beside his cousin.

Elu’s hair was still slightly wet, but as Círdan realised from being carefully washed, not from the rain, for whoever had taken care of him had combed it diligently. All his wounds had been either dressed or at least covered in ointment, but the pains of his torment were still etched on Elu’s fair features even as he slept. Círdan stroked his head gently, which he regretted instantly, as it caused Elu to awake with a gasp in terror. He did not look at Círdan, though, but gazed blindly into nothingness. That he was seeing, however, and things horrible to behold, was only too evident to Círdan, who felt terribly helpless as he could neither soothe nor truly wake his cousin. In the end, he did the only thing that made sense to him and lay down himself, wrapping his arms as gently as he could around Elu’s quavering form, pressing his head to his own chest. Elu struggled feebly at first, but after a few moments became calm and then stirred as if waking from an evil dream.

“Círdan?”

“I’m here. I told you you were safe. And you know, it really is a beautiful thing that I can still comfort you by holding you, like I held you when you were not an hour old. I promised then, childishly, to look after you, and even though I was not able to keep that promise, I shall now hold you until the end if that is what you want.”

Elu nodded, still shivering in Círdan’s arms, so Círdan covered him more tightly in his blankets.

“Dress me, Círdan. Please.”

“That would only hurt you, and to no avail. We are alone here, nobody else will touch you if you do not want to and I…”

“Please. It’ll make me feel free again. Please!”

Círdan swallowed hard, realising what Elu meant. They must have stripped him as soon as they captured him, and that he could not now be naked without still mentally finding himself in the orcs’ clutches.

“Alright.”

He dressed Elu in one of his own soft linen tunic and trousers, and as Elu would not go anywhere, it mattered not that they were perhaps a little short. Still, doing so was painful for both of them, physically for Elu, mentally for Círdan, who had never imagined to ever find his cousin so helpless. He had hoped that through the injury of his spine Elu might not be able to feel his legs, but that hope proved vain, and Círdan apologised what felt like for every touch.

“Círdan… don’t. I asked you to, knowing it would hurt. It is fine. I am sorry in return that I cannot help. But I cannot move my legs.”

“I know. Does this feel better now?”

Elu nodded, and even made a brave attempt at a smile.

“A lot.”

He did not look it, though, and it was indeed not long before Elu was fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I am so tired…” he mumbled.

“Then sleep!” Círdan whispered back, kissing the top of his cousin’s head as gently as he could, knowing that his scalp would still be sore from being dragged by the hair. “I will stay right here by your side, I am not leaving you.”

Elu, however, was suddenly frantic again, holding onto Círdan with his good hand like a drowning person would hold onto a log.

“No. No, I can’t. They will get me again.”

“No. No-one is going to get you. Eglarest stands. The siege we might be unable to break, but nor can they break our defences. And if by some fell chance they happen to do so nonetheless, I would run my knife through your heart before they would get a chance at seizing you again. You are safe here.”

He laid down once more beside his cousin and put his arms back around him, and for a while, he thought that Elu might actually have fallen asleep. But then Elu spoke again, and his voice was hoarse with the strain of memory.

“I could not shed my body.”

“I know.”

“I begged for death. I begged Lord Námo to take me, anything to end it.”

“I know!” Círdan repeated, tears almost choking his voice. “And I am so, so sorry.”

“It was him. He touched me. He broke my hips and back. And the orcs, they laughed… and then… I thought they would just maim me but… oh, I wish they had.  But they just…”

Elu grappled for words, and Círdan himself could only press his lips to Elu’s hair and cradle him, lost for anything to say.

“They did it again and again, until I could no longer tell how many of them… oh please, make it stop, make the memories go away.”

He nestled with Círdan’s tunic like a small child, his eyes wide and again seeming to see something that was not there. Círdan pressed his hand, stroking his fingers tenderly.

“This I cannot, Elu. I cannot make you forget what has happened to you. But I promise you you’re safe. My walls stand!”

“I could not shed my body.”

Círdan held Elu tight, did his utmost to make his tone level as he was steeling himself to say what he had never ever wanted to say.

“Hush. It’s alright. You can now. You are free. If you need to go, nothing hinders you anymore. Let not my tears hold you back. I love you, and I want you to do whatever is best for you!”

“But what if Bauglir wins in the end? What if not even Mandos stands? I cannot bear that a second time, I cannot!”

Círdan had no idea what to say to that, how to reassure his cousin. Elu hid his face against Círdan’s neck as Círdan recommenced the gentle stroking of his hair, a gesture so painfully reminiscent of a little frightened elfling that Círdan thought his heart might break with grief. Oh, Bauglir would certainly be very pleased if he could see them now. This had been so much more than just torture, more even than the appeasing of lust or a reward for the Orcs. The rape of the High-King of the Elves of Beleriand marked Bauglir’s ultimate victory over them all.

“He will not gain any power over Aman. The West is safe!”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. I promise you, you are safe where you are going!”

For a moment, they lapsed into silence, so that nothing could be heard but the howling of the storm and the rushing of the waves. Then Elu said softly:

“Imagine us sailing together!”

“How many times do you think I have done just that? But then you would have been all lovesick, would you not? Unless Melian had sailed with us?”

Elu chuckled, but there was grief beyond what Círdan could measure behind that laugh, and sure enough, when Elu looked up at him, his tears were glistening with tears.

“I would go through all torture once more to see her just one last time. Promise me, Círdan, that should ever there be a safe way for you to reach them in Menegroth, tell Melian that I died thinking of her, that I love her. And Lúthien and Elmo, too.”

Tears were dripping down both their faces now as they held onto one another.

“They know. But I will tell them anyway, if you want me to.”

Círdan paused for a moment, then added:
“Await me in the West, Elu, for one day, in one way or another, we shall meet there once more.”

“I will.”

For a long while, they remained silently in that tight embrace, then Círdan began to sing. He sang of the sea and the wind that brushed over the waves, of the light that shone in the utmost West and of the starlit forests and plains of Beleriand. At last he slipped into a half-forgotten lullaby sung to them both at Cuiviénen, a song that could be repeated almost endlessly. There at last, Elu raised his voice with him, weak, yet fair as all the voices of the Teleri were, and so they sung together while outside the storm still raged with unbroken ferocity.

Círdan’s memory again began to wander with the words that he sang, back to Cuiviénen, to their childhood, to climbing trees and crafting little boats, to playful fights among the other elflings. He thought of Elu’s first unsteady steps, of his parents always chiding him for picking Elu up. He would never have imagined then that he would ever call his little cousin his king, nor would he have thought that he would have to watch him die.

After some time Elu fell silent, and even though Círdan battled to keep singing, he could not do so for long, his voice choked by tears. He did not raise his head to look at Elu, nor did he need to, to know that he would never again wake from the slumber he had sunken into, and Círdan wept as he had not done since he had to accept that it was his fate to remain in Middle-Earth. At long last, he sat up, laying, for sake of completeness, his hand upon Elu’s chest, feeling for his heartbeat, but found it not, which was what he suspected from the start.

He had not ordered anyone to stand guard before his door, and only realised that his guards still had when they quietly entered the room, no doubt drawn to him by his sobs.

“Lord? King Elu, is he…?”

There was no need for them to complete their question. Círdan felt himself nod, one hand still clenched over Elu’s chest.

“He is gone.“

They bowed with sorrow on their faces, no doubt leaving him to spread the news, but Círdan was glad to be alone once more. It would not do for his people to see him like this in the middle of a siege. He needed to be strong.

It took him a while yet to find the courage to finally look into his cousin’s face, but when he did, he was relieved, for Elu had died with a smile upon his lips, and that the traces of Morgoth’s torture lay in his features no more.