A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 14- Nimloth

This chapter deals with the violent deaths of young children. If you're not comfortable reading this, skip this chapter and maybe scroll down to the end of chapter notes. I'll summarise it there

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The ground and sky were a bleak, uniform white, with snow slowly swirling around them, dusting the trees, covering the rocks and tree-stumps that littered the ground.

And the bodies.

Only in the soggy puddles of blood that surrounded them, the snow still melted.

Nimloth’s insides felt just as white and blank. When they had made their camp the night before, all had been well. They had been a wandering people with hopes, with dreams, many being excited to see their sundered kin on the isle of Balar again soon.

They would not now, at least not on these shores.
It gave her a savage satisfaction that amongst the bodies littering the ground, there were a few that were clothed in Fëanorian red, their bright mail and swords gleaming in the snow. The vast majority of the corpses, however, were their own people, and it was Nimloth’s grim task to turn each and every one of them around to see who they were. Only so could they know who had managed to escape, if indeed anyone had managed to escape.

Dior was busy with the same gruesome task only a few steps to her left, and Nimloth time and again glanced over to the tree where she had left Elwing sitting by its massive trunk, covered in her cloak and guarded by Huan. Tears stung Nimloth’s eyes as she watched the unsteady rise and fall of the hound’s flank, knowing what it meant, knowing that guarding little Elwing would likely be Huan’s last valiant deed in Beleriand. How was it, she wondered, that she could not shed a single tear over the fallen, but wept for the dog? But Huan had always been there, steadfast and reliable, a beacon of hope and safety. And somehow, Nimloth had plainly forgotten about the fact that Huan himself had never wholly recovered from his fight with Carcharoth. After all, she had never known him unwounded, and that had made it so easy to overlook the fact that Huan’s old injuries troubled him more with every winter he lived through. Especially since they had lost the secure warmth of Nargothrond.

And today, Huan had faced what must have been his worst fear, being torn between Dior and Celegorm as they fought. His loyalty ever lay with the people of Beren, but still he had whined as he had sniffed Celegorm’s face as he lay bleeding in the snow, gasping for breath. Nimloth did not want to feel those feelings of pity, not towards those creatures who were responsible for all this, but she still could not help it- she was relieved that Celegorm had died with his old friend close by. Everyone deserved some comfort in their dying hour.
There was no doubt, however, that this would mark the last torment for Huan as well. Unharmed though he was, he still lay dying, at long last succumbing to the injuries Carcharoth had bestowed upon him, and to the grieves that he had seen here in Ennor. Would he return West, and rejoin Lord Oromë’s hunt? Nimloth hoped it, hoped that there truly was redemption in the West, but just now, that faint hope did not reach her heart.

Dior seemed to have noticed her tears, for he walked over to her to put an arm around her shoulders. Neither of them spoke, but only wordlessly leaned against one another for comfort. It was then that Nimloth noticed the blood that soaked the lower part of Dior’s tunic. Too much blood to belong to anyone else but her husband himself.

“Dior! You are wounded!”

She looked up into his face, noting only now that his skin was pale and clammy. He smiled at her nonetheless, shaking his head in what was clearly supposed to be a reassuring manner.

“I am alright. No need to worry about me. We must find the boys.”

The sickening feeling of fear that she had tried so hard to keep at bay now stirred in Nimloth’s stomach again, creeping up through her chest to her throat, until she felt she must tear her body into pieces to escape it. The boys… Nimloth had grasped Elwing as soon as the screams had started, had made sure that she was well hidden and guarded, and had trusted the boys to follow. But they had not. Whether someone else had grabbed them and escaped with them, or whether they had hidden on their own account, Nimloth knew not. Surely they had not thought to fight? Boys. Regardless the race, they always managed to get themselves into the worst of troubles. But no, certainly not. And even if… nobody would hurt young children, would they? Not even the Fëanorians could be so vile.

But try to convince herself as she may, Nimloth could not quell the panic now that had settled in her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment.

And then, she heard Dior’s scream.

The sound went through her like a knife, his pain hers through their marriage-bond, and she knew with a horrible, gut-wrenching certainty that no physical wound could cause him such anguish. No. There was only one thing that could cause Dior to make such a sound. He had found them. Pain flushed her very being, pain so devastating and profound that it drowned out all other thought, all feeling, everything. There they lay, all but invisible with their silver hair and grey mantles.

‘For luck.’ Lúthien had said as she had wrapped the newborn twins in one shred of her father’s old mantel each. Luck. As if.

They lay on top of each other, pinned to the cold ground by a spear. What monster, what utterly evil being would do that to children? And this had been done not by Orcs or Balrogs or other servants of the enemy, but Elves. Nimloth could not comprehend it, however much she tried.

Eluréd lay face-down over his brother’s body, his fingers still clenched into Elurín’s tunic, whose skull had been cracked open by some Fëanorian blade. By some miracle, his face had remained utterly unmarked, and if anything, that made it worse. He looked just perfect, maybe a little astonished, but that he had always done. This child that had marvelled with wide eyes at the endless wonders the world had to offer. Dior stroked Elurín’s cheek tenderly with one finger, tears cascading down his face, then he reached out to press their son’s eyelids shut. Nimloth whimpered in pain, unable to contain herself. Would she ever look into their starry eyes again? Her beautiful little boys, would she be sundered from them forever? She could not bear to imagine it, to think of how terrified they must have been, or still be even now. Elurín clearly had died instantly, but Eluréd must have consciously witnessed it all- his brother’s violent death, the agony of being speared and trapped. Had he called for her or Dior? Had it taken him long to go?  She wanted nothing more than to cradle him, to wake him, to tell him that she was here now, for he must know, must learn that they had not abandoned them. When, she tried to recall, had she last told them both how much she loved them?

Her thoughts whirled.

Then she realised that Eluréd’s hand, the one that was not clenched on Elurín’s shoulder, was held by another hand belonging to another, fully-grown body. There was so much blood around the elf and on his garments and in his hair that it took Nimloth a moment to realise who had comforted her son in his dying moment, and had not the pain of losing her sons been so profound that it left little room for anything else, she might have screamed when she recognised him.

Instead, she wordlessly stroked the matted hair out of her father’s still face, trying not to look beyond, to where his left arm was severed from his body at the shoulder. But she still did, and so learned that Galathil must have crawled over to her sons after receiving his injury. Had the act of reaching them and comforting Eluréd eased her father’s pain a little? Nimloth hoped so with all her heart.

Dior only sobbed.

“I am sorry” he said at last, when he had regained some control “I am so sorry. Oh Nimloth, this is all my fault.”

His words stirred something in her, something ugly, something fell, and for a moment she wanted to shake her husband, to shout at him that yes, this was indeed his fault and no-one else’s. That had he not been so haughty when confronted with the claim of Maedhros Fëanorian, none of this would have happened. That had it not been for his pride, her father and sons would still be alive.

But then she looked at Dior, pale and exhausted and wounded, crying the same bitter tears that she cried herself, and tenderness and love chased all evil thoughts from her mind. She cupped her hands over his cheeks and stroked his wet face with her thumb.

“No. No, love, never say so again. This is not your fault.”

“It never occurred to me…” he pleaded “I never thought the children would be in danger. I never thought they would target anyone but me, if that. Had I thought… the boys… oh my boys…”

He once again wept too much to keep talking, and Nimloth pressed her forehead against his.

“I know.”

She wanted to say more, to reassure him, but could not gather the strength to talk anymore at all. Still a fierce, stubborn thought now pierced through her pain and grief to settle firmly in her heart- that she would never, ever, let the murderers of her sons and father and how many other innocent people get what they wanted. Whatever it would cost her, she would not let them achieve their goal.

Nimloth had no clear memory of the rest of that terrible day. She only vaguely remembered turning over every body and laying them out in the most dignified way their various injuries allowed, and by the time the light began to fade, they had everyone accounted for, safe only some of Nimloth’s closest kin. She knew not if they lived, but her mother, her aunt and uncle, and Oropher and Thranduil were not among those they now covered in branches and leaves, all that they could find to protect the bodies. They had no other means of burying them, as much as it pained Nimloth to lay her father to rest in just such a way. They had no strength to bury anyone but the boys, and she was sure that Galathil, who had after all held Eluréd’s hand despite his own dreadful injury, would have wanted just that- that his grandsons were laid to rest properly rather than he himself. The Fëanorians they left lying as they were.
At some point at night, Nimloth found herself cowering on the ground, Elwing pressed against her chest, trying to explain to her that her brothers would sleep in that grave forever, guarded into all eternity by faithful Huan, and that they needed to leave them, them and everyone else Elwing had known and loved all her short life.

They wandered on, through the night, the following day and then another night without rest, and without meeting a single soul. It was as though all of Beleriand was emptied. Then, as the second day of their journey turned towards night, Dior stumbled and fell to his knees, clutching the wound on his stomach.

Nimloth knew not what to do. It was very apparent that Dior could not walk another step ere he had properly rested, and ere his wound had been cared for, and perhaps she herself would not have lasted another night of carrying Nimloth through the cold, but resting nonetheless scared her. After all, the Fëanorians had not gained what they had sought, so surely they would keep looking? And if they found them here, defenceless and weary… no, Nimloth could not let that happen. She cared not for her own life, but for that of Dior and Elwing. Especially Elwing. Her daughter was really all that mattered now.

Still, there was no real choice in this, so she did what she could to make sure that they were all warm and well hidden, then settled down for the night. Sleep, however, would not come for her, regardless of how terribly tired she felt. She had never before been afraid of the dark. That was a thing she knew from the humans that she had met throughout her life, but had never known to affect a grown Elf. Now, however, she was afraid. Elwing had fallen asleep as soon as Nimloth had put her down, exhausted by the events of the past days. Oh, how Nimloth longed to sleep, too. But she could not, not with fear so great raging within her heart, so she contented herself to sit quietly and watch over the only two people that mattered to her now.

Dior was not truly resting, either, but thrashing around in his sleep. He burned with fever, something so very rare in Elves that Nimloth had only heard of it before, but never actually seen it, neither in Elf nor Man. That was, until the same horrifying condition had taken her father-in-law. The by now familiar, sick feeling of panic rose again from her stomach to her chest- could this be proof that Dior was counted among Mortals, too? Or was this simply due to his being only half-elven, and so more susceptible to the ailments of the Secondborn than others? And besides, the terrors he had lived through these past days were quite enough to bring every elf to their knees as well, and that was not even taking into account the deep slash to his lower abdomen. Oh, that terrible fool. He had hidden his pain from her the entire time so as not to add to her sorrow, until he could do so no longer.

Acting on the impulse, she stroked a strand of wet hair out of his face, doing her best not to flinch as she touched his skin. He was so terribly hot to the touch. Yet despite his fever, Dior opened his eyes at her caress, valiantly trying to smile.

“How are you feeling, meleth?” Nimloth asked tenderly.

It took Dior several attempts before he could answer, which he really need not have. It was only too obvious that he felt about as horrible as one could feel.

“I’ve been better.” he muttered.

Nimloth knew not what to say to that, so she confined herself to stroking Dior’s head, hoping that this would tell her husband what she could not tell him with words just now- that she was there for him.

“Nimloth…” Dior breathed after a while, taking her hand with his own shaking fingers. “… I need you to promise me… to save Elwing.”

“Of course. But you do not need me to promise you. We both know that we will keep her safe with our lives.”

But Dior shook his head, looking very serious.

“No. You have to leave me. ’Tis far too dangerous to linger here any longer. You have to go on. I will follow you as soon as I am better, but just now I… cannot. Go and save yourself and Elwing.”

“I will not leave you, Dior. Never.”

Dior, however, had his eyes already half-closed.

“Promise me.” he mumbled, ere he passed out again.

Over the next hours, as night turned to a grey morning and then on to a stormy day, Nimloth did all in her power to make Dior better, and keep herself and Elwing safe and hidden. But as dusk fell again and Elwing had slipped off into an uneasy sleep once more, Nimloth had to admit to herself that her fight was vain. Dior’s condition deteriorated continuously, and she slowly felt his spirit seeking to slip away. It was horrible to watch. Maybe it was his manish blood that made him fight death so, maybe it was his youth, or else the knowledge that he had a wife and child who desperately needed him, but Dior’s grappling with death still put Nimloth in a terrible dilemma- they had lingered far to long already, and risked being found and killed any moment now.

The next moment, she had to press her hand to her mouth to stifle her renewed sobs. She did not want Dior to die, least of all die sooner than he had to. She loved him, after all, loved him more than any other being in this world. But the fact remained that he had asked her to keep Elwing safe. What then, was she supposed to do? She could not stay, and she could not leave her dying husband behind, either. There was only one way. Only of that, she shuddered to even think. It was hideous. Unnatural. How could anyone do what she knew in her heart now that she must do, how could she take her own husband’s life? How could she end the life of the person she loved most? And yet there was no alternative, not unless she was prepared to leave Dior alone in his death throes- and that thought was even more unbearable than killing Dior herself.

She made sure therefore that Elwing slept soundly, and then carefully folded back Dior’s blanket and bared his thigh. She let her fingers brush over his skin, trying to quell the sudden feelings of desire that welled up inside her, tender and spectacularly out of place. How could she think now of the times she had caressed this very spot of skin, had felt it rub against hers as they loved each other, when she was about to run a knife over her husband’s leg?
Chasing away her thoughts, she took a small, almost empty bottle from the pouch that hung from her belt, and rubbed the last few drops over Dior’s inner thigh, praying that  they would suffice to numb Dior’s leg a little, before she set her sharpened knife against his skin.

“Please forgive me, beloved.” she whispered even as she moved her hand, cutting deep into Dior’s flesh.

She knew by the instant rush of hot blood that her aim had been true, that she had found her target.

“Nimloth?”

She hastened to put her hand on his cheek, seeking to reassure and comfort him.

“I am here, beloved. I am not leaving you.”

He frowned a little.

“I am cold. And my leg feels… funny.”

“Let me check.”

She pretended to check his leg, not seeing anything for the tears that cascaded from her eyes. She need not see, anyway. Feeling his blood wet her clothes told her enough.

“I cannot see anything off.” she told him as she tucked both their mantles firmly around him, the lie burning within her throat.

“Must be th’ fever…” he muttered.

“Yes.”

She continued stroking his burning face as he trembled, his breathing becoming shallower with every passing moment. Yet she realised with mingled affection and despair that the concern in his grey eyes was not for himself, but only for her.

“Why are you crying?”

She tried to wipe her eyes, but it was no use. She could not suppress her sobs now.

“Because I think you’re dying, Dior.”

He leaned his head into her hand, smiling weakly.

“I will be alright. I feel much better, actually. And I am glad you have not left.”

He sought her warmth and she gave him these last cuddles only too willingly, trying to soak every moment up, to etch them forever into her heart. She knew that these might well be the last moments she ever shared with her beloved, and if that was indeed to be so, she must, must remember every single one of them.

All too soon, Dior gave a little shudder and closed his eyes for good, his breathing nothing but a quivering of his chest. Now, finally, the entirety of Nimloth’s overwhelming grief crashed over her, and she allowed herself to cry openly. Dior would not know it now, at least. Still she held him tight as his heart beat its last, and that knowledge -that she had not abandoned him, that her comforting arms had been the last he had felt- was all that kept her within her own right mind.
Nimloth continued to caress her husband’s body without the conscious decision to do so, but utterly unable to help herself. Fairest, they had called him, and that he truly had been- that, and so much more. He had been Nimloth’s cousin, her best friend, she had watched him master speech and song, and he had taught her how to climb the rocky pillars of Nargothrond, until they perched giggling, high above Orodreth’s throne-room. Her parents certainly had never known about it, and nor had Beren. Lúthien might have known, but if so, she had never told the tales on them. Oh, how she wished to be able to turn back time, to escape once more into the bliss of childhood, and their tenderly growing love.

“Nana?”

Nimloth started, pushing herself up to turn to her daughter. Elwing’s black hair was whipped around her face by the wind, and she looked pale and scared.

“Does Ada sleep?”

She did not know what to say, what to answer. It mattered not. The words were drawn from her mouth as by an invisible force.

“No, he…”

“Does he sleep like Elurín and Eluréd?”

Nimloth thought that she could not bear to keep feeling for another moment, but still she nodded.

“Will we make his bed in the earth, too?”

Whether she had crawled over to Elwing, or Elwing had walked the few steps over to her, Nimloth did not know, only that she held her daughter pressed to her chest the next moment.

“No, Elwing. We cannot. We need to be gone.”

They had wasted too much time already. What would happen to his body now would not hurt Dior anymore, and she could not jeopardise Elwing’s life any further just to bury him. So she carefully pulled Beren’s ring from Dior’s finger and tugged the Silmaril from under his tunic, where it had rested against his chest the entire time, and finally also took his grandfather’s sword that lay beside him. These three objects Dior had praised, and though she could not give him the burial he deserved, she could at least take them to safety with her.

It was then that she noticed something odd. Dior’s body seemed to be buried by dry leaves already, as if he had lain here for days. Nimloth wondered, wondered if the trees sensed his Maiar-heritage. Would they do what she could not, and make his bed, as Elwing had put it? She hoped so with all her might. Elwing tottered over to her father, and curled up next to him, stroking his pale cheek and singing, singing the song, Nimloth realised with mingled affection and horror, that Dior had always sung to her and her brothers at sleep-time.

Something within Nimloth finally shattered at that moment. It was too much to bear.

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Chapter End Notes

For those who skipped the chapter- this was basically the second kinslaying. Most die, including the twins, Galathil and Huan. And Dior. Whose sufferings Nimloth herself has to end.