Shrike by Elrond's Library  

He knew they were coming, the dread sons of Fëanor. The wards left in his care by his grandmother had never failed to alert the young king of Doriath of danger in his woods. He sends it away with his daughter and her nurse, he must. He must hide it, keep it safe and hidden, keep the light away from the darkness that roils like the sea in the hearts of his enemies. He cannot afford to think of them as fellow Eldar. He cannot allow the potential of being labeled Kinslayer hold him back from protecting his land, his people, his family, his treasure.

Not enough time, not enough people, not enough, it’s never been enough.

The pale hair of this one marks him as different than the rest, but the stars on his armor and the feral grin he laughs with marks him just as much a son of dread Fëanor as all the rest of the dark-haired ones whose bodies litter the floor.

The pale-haired one approaches. They dance in the grand halls of Menegroth, their eyes never leaving each other. Arrows fly, lances thrown, swords clash – all in a desperate rush to kill or be killed.

He is hurt. He is bleeding. He is dying.

He knows this.

And so, he must act.

A last, most desperate act. He twists under his guard, grabbing, holding, forcing the enemy to his knees. His enemy buckles, gasps as teeth meet his throat, a lover’s caress transformed into violence by the very nature of the encounter. He draws upon the forest that nurtures, upon the rage that blinds, upon that dehumanizing hate, and bites.

Copper mixes with tears as they sink to the ground, his teeth still embedded in the other’s graceful neck.

Darkness gathers on the edges of his vision, and still he does not let go.

He does not want to go, to let go.

The whispers grow louder, and everything fades.

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