#idril

One part is joy to see her son and husband dancing along the wall, wishing they could fly with her. The other part is spite, pride, a desire to yell at all of them, to look in Maeglin’s sharp eyes and her father’s silver chill and tell him he can’t catch her. He can’t have her, not, not ever. But this is only a dream, a gentle dream but a dream nonetheless.

When the sun rises and casts her rays on the world below, Idril is reminded that she can’t run. None of them can. The shadows of the encircling mountains stretch long and Morgoth’s spies fall to the ground riddled with their desperate arrows. There is no escaping the Doom that comes for them on the horizon, only mitigating its hurt. Yet Idril wishes and wants and dreams of swan-wings lifting her high above and strong feet letting her run far away.

Perhaps she’s a coward for wanting to leave, unlike her father; Perhaps she’s smart to see the glow of fire slowly descending like the sun, unlike her father. Only the end, the fall of her beloved home will give her the answer.

Fingolfin knelt beside her, and his heart ached with a helplessness he had never known. The suffering of his grandchild harmed him more deeply than any blade.

"My little princess,"

Fingolfin brushed Idril’s damp hair from her tear-streaked face. His hands trembled despite his will.

(...)

Idril whimpered and clutched weakly at his sleeve, pressing closer as though seeking shelter from the pain.

Fingolfin's eyes searched for his son. “We must.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Turgon rose and broke.

“No! I won't let you! There must be another way!”

He stumbled toward Idril, reaching for her.

Fingon caught him before he could reach them, arms locking around his shoulders, but the force of Turgon’s movement nearly tore him apart.

“Let me go!” Turgon struggled fiercely, trying to wrench away, his hands reaching desperately toward his daughter. “She’s my daughter, not yours! You cannot do it! She loves to dance!”

"Turukáno!" Fingon’s voice was firm, though his own face was pale. “Listen to me! We have waited too long! We must act now!”

(...)

Idril whimpered again, her small fingers tightening desperately around Fingolfin’s hand upon the comotion.

Her wide dark eyes found his.

Fear shone in them.

Fingolfin bent and kissed her forehead with a voice low and gentle though his throat burned.

“I will not let you suffer more than you must,” he said softly. “I will do this. And I will hold you through it.”

(...)

Fingolfin steadied his trembling hands and took the dagger.

Then he began.

The pain came sharp and merciless.

Idril’s cry tore through the tent.

Fingolfin’s vision blurred, but he did not falter. He held her fast, murmuring to her though his own heart was breaking.

Behind him, Turgon sagged against Fingon, the sound leaving him small and shattered. His hands trembled helplessly as he buried his face against his brother’s shoulder.

He could only weep for what was being taken from her—for the dancing in light that she loved.

At last, it was done.

by Kirta (@aurore-parle-de-ses-idees)

Ereinion scrubs harshly at his face, blinking rapidly. “Then I must confess I’m at a loss as to what might bring you here so late, Lady Idril.” “There is some news I must deliver,” she says. “And one matter that must be settled before it becomes a point of contention."

General, No Archive Warnings