Though All Things Fail and Come to Naught by Artano  

The elf stares out over the ruined land. Embers smolder underfoot. Smoke hangs heavy in the sky, carrying with it the stench of burnt wood and flesh. He steps through the ruins of a town; beside him broken rafters claw at the gloomy sky with skeletal fingers. There is no hope of survivors. But he must check. He must be sure. These thoughts drive him forward alongside his men, compelling him to comb through every building for survivors.

A few more steps, and he has reached the husk of the next house. He enters and glances around, searching for anything that might have survived the fierce flames. A metal bedframe is propped in the corner, scraps of burnt fabric all that remain of the mattress. No one stored bedframes like that. Unease settles over him, but he forces himself to move towards it. Behind it, he finds bones, blackened by fire and covered in soot. Larger bones lay curled around smaller ones. His hands clench. They were too large for an animal. And there were to many for one person.

Bile rises in his throat, and he turns away. He has seen too many dead bodies this past week. Too many for a lifetime. Tears prick at his eyes as he stumbles from the ruins. He slumps against the the remains of a tree a few paces away. His breath shudders into his lungs, grating like sand against his throat. So much death. So much pain. Was this how his brothers had died? Terrified and burning? No. He couldn't think that. He wouldn't fall apart. He had to bury them. He had to check the next house. And the next.

Another breath raps into his lungs, and he swallows back the tears. Later. He could grieve later. Right now, he needed to calm himself.

His breath trembles as teachings he had heard in childhood rise to his lips. As he begins speaking, his voice wavers. "Though the fruit tree should not grow, nor grapes be on the vine, though the fields yield no wheat, and the flock be cut off from the fold…" His hand clenches on the charred bark, grinding cinders into his palm and blackening his fingers. "…yet I will rejoice in Ilúvatar; I will take joy in the God of my creation." A tear trickles down his cheek. "Though all things fail and come to naught, Ilúvatar shall work all things for good. All shall be as instruments in His hands-"

His voice breaks off, choked by grief.

Chapter End Notes

As the sharp-eyed amongst you might have noticed, the elf in this story is Finrod. However, I left the elf unnamed because it occurred to me that Finrod's experience was likely similar to what other Elves experienced; surely he was not the only one to lose family as the fires swept over Ard-galen and Dorthonion. And I wanted to keep that generalization and focus more on the devastation of what occurred rather than making it all about Finrod.

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