The Final Kinslaying by Niphredinell  

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Chapter 1

This idea came from one of the sad threads in Fingerling Convention discord. And then I just... made it worse. For the plot. 

Kit has kindly beta-read this chapter for me, thank you Kit ♡ 

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The songs and stories speak of Gil-galad's fall, of his bravery fighting Sauron, of the Ring being cut off the Maia's finger by Elendil's son.

They don't speak of what happened after.

They don't mention that the last High King of Ñoldor didn't die until later.

They don't mention that his death would have taken much longer, would have been much more painful, if not for a mercy shown by his closest friend.

Elrond made sure they don't mention that.

He knows he Doomed himself that day anyway.

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When Sauron falls, Elrond is there.

He kneels down by Ereinion's body and, heedless of the heat coming from it, turns him around from where he was thrown face-first to the ground. He's halfway through the motion of pulling the body of his friend to his lap, when he realises that Ereinion is still breathing. His breaths are shallow and rasping but he's breathing.

Elrond shouts for healing supplies and lowers Ereinion to the ground on his back, starts stripping the king's armour as he hums the diagnostic Song, sitting down on his heels.

Ereinion reaches for his arm and, not able to grasp it with his fingers clenched into the fist from the burns, he just rests it on Elrond's gauntlet.

"Elrond," he rasps, barely audible.

Elrond touches Ereinion's face gently, not caring about the heat he can feel even through his gauntlets as he continues Singing.

He doesn't need more than a few bars to realise that no matter what supplies are brought to him, no matter how much Song he can use, there's nothing he can do to save Ereinion's life. He finishes the Song anyway, his voice breaking as the lump in his throat grows bigger and his tears flow freely.

"It's alright," Ereinion rasps, pushing his hand harder against Elrond's arm.

"No." Elrond shakes his head. He grasps Ereinion's burnt hand. "No, I have to do something," he whispers.

There is a commotion around him and Erestor and Glorfindel show up at a run, both kneeling on the other side of the High King, Elrond's healing kit in the Fëanorian's hand.

"What do you need?" Erestor asks, as he opens the bag.

Elrond shakes his head, his eyes not leaving his friend's burnt face. He can't heal him, there's nothing that he can do to help, only…

He barely hears the thud of his supply bag falling to the ground.

"Nothing?" Glorfindel asks quietly.

Ereinion shakes his head. "It's alright," he rasps again and then a horrible cough shakes him.

Elrond makes a decision.

Ereinion told him once that in Eregion, when it was falling, he had to decide to break his own heart to save his dear friend from more suffering.

Now Elrond can do the same for him.

"Ereinion," he whispers. And then his voice breaks. He sobs, clutching to the king's hand, as he folds in half.

Elrond knows what he has to do.

He doesn't know if he can do it.

He has to.

He listens to his friend's rasping breaths.

This will take too long.

It will get worse.

He has to do it.

He collects the remains of his strength, he collects himself, makes his mind turn towards the healer and the warrior not the heartbroken friend and cousin.

He straightens up slowly.

"Ereinion," he says gently, like he called many patients' names before, when giving them the bad news. "This will take a long time. There's only one thing I can do."

Erestor gasps.

Ereinion looks at Elrond. He can't smile. His face is too burnt. He sends a grateful thought through a weak ósanweconnection that Elrond always keeps open for him anyway.

"I will do it," Glorfindel says firmly.

"No," Elrond looks up at the Balrog-Slayer firmly. "That's not why you were sent here."

"If they wanted me to stand aside, they chose the wrong person for the job," Glorfindel replies. His face is set in a grim, determined expression.

"You were sent as a sign of hope. No," Elrond says simply.

He reaches for the dagger he carries alongside his sword. His hands are shaking.

Erestor reaches over Ereinion and puts his hand on top of Elrond's.

"Then I will do it," he says quietly, surely. "What's more blood on my hands?"

Elrond shakes his head and shakes Erestor's hand off of his.

"No," he repeats.

"Elrond…" Erestor tries again.

Elrond draws his dagger.

"He's my patient," he says to Erestor instead of repeating himself.

Elrond's hands are still shaking. He wishes they weren't. He looks at Ereinion.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to do more," he squeezes Ereinion's hand before letting it go and then touches his friend's face again. "I would do more if I could."

Ereinion shakes his head weakly. "This is-" he coughs again, "enough."

Elrond blinks away the tears and aims the dagger. But his shaking hands betray him and he has to withdraw it. He swears, frustrated.

Ereinion reaches to the hand that's touching his face. "You don't-" he rasps, each breath sounding painful, "don't have to."

Elrond shakes his head and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

He doesn't have to.

But it's the only kindness he can give his dying friend.

He opens his eyes, catching Ereinion's and smiles weakly.

"I will see you on the other side of the sea," he whispers.

He aims his dagger again.

"Námo, watch over him now," he says firmly as he pushes the blade in.

In the breaking, weakened ósanwe he feels gratitude before he feels nothing.

Without letting go of the dagger he collapses on top of his now dead friend and keens.

On the slopes of Orodruin, Elrond Peredhel Dooms himself.

He won't find out for another Age what the full consequences of the decision he made that day are.