Traitors! Defilers!
A storm raged in his mind. He felt his blood boiling, he heard the voices from the past, their chattering, their screaming and shouting rising again, until they reached the gates of his Fëa. And all the time, he saw him in front of the eyes of his mind:
Thendryt, the mortal.
Enough!
He slammed the table with his fist, and stood up. Something buzzed in his head.
Traitors! Defilers!
Engwar they were called, the Sickly. Wretched, weak, treacherous.
Apanónar, the Afterborn, poisoned by darkness. Born in dark pits of mud and dirt.
Hildor, the Followers. Following Morgoth's way.
Oh, he knew! He had seen the vile race of Men showing its true face. Showing its greed, its voraciousness, its viciousness.
Traitors! Defilers!
This man, Thendryt, was no different. How could he be?! He was a child of the Atani, another abomination bred for the suffering of Arda. He had revealed his true nature.
Ráolor remembered well. Thendryt had marched alongside Hammer and Arrow into the Misty Mountains. He had fought at their side, slaying Goblins.
But no.
True compassion and love for Arda did not exist in the hearts of men.
Thendryt had only fought for his own goals, for he had been waiting for his time to strike his allies in the back. But with so many warriors of the Eldar present, he had been fearful for sure. He had waited, and measured, pretending and lying.
And then time had come. He had tried to assassinate Yrill while she was standing nearby, showing her back. With attacking an Elda, he had betrayed the elves. He had betrayed the trust of the Eldalië, showing his true nature, the spirit of a vicious assassin.
Filthy backstabber! Maledict mortal!
He had tried to kill Ráolor's sister-at-arms!..
Traitors! Defilers!
Oh, he remembered well.
Ráolor walked back and forth like an caged predator.
He remembered everything. The Sons of Fëanáro had taken them into service. Wild, ugly men. Oh, that had been such a heavy mistake!.. They had listened to the rumours from West Beleriand. It was said, noble houses of the Edain were dwelling there, serving the Noldor, aiding them valiantly in the war against Morgoth. It was said, that Men too were steady in mind, firm of will, mighty in arms.
Cursed mortals!
In the Battle of Unnumbered Tears they had shown their true face, taking up the enemy's side. He had seen many of his friends stabbed in the back, smitten down by the scimitars of these foul Easterlings.
Ráolor changed direction, walking to the Market of Imladris.
Why did it take so long? He needed his hauberk. He would check whether these armourers were at work or not.
Traitors! Defilers!
Oh, he had hunted them down, back in the days of Beleriand. He had visited the camps of the Easterlings, slaughtering them like goats, dozens of them. After the years, he had stopped to count. He had tried to clean the surface of Arda from their filth. He had even found a few newly built villages near lake Helevorn. While the bigger part of them had been resettled in Dor-Lómin, some of the Easterling tribes had decided to move south, sharing the defiled land with Orcs and Goblins, spreading destruction, torment and despair to every living thing in the northern part of East Beleriand.
It had driven him to madness. He had attacked these villages, destroyed the houses, driven out the inhabitants. He had only spared women and children.
The Noldor had lost the war because of mankind's treason.
Ráolor clenched his teeth.
He had gazed at Thendryt. The mortal had recently tried to slam his chest with his shoulder, in the Last Homely House.
The sculptor uttered a grim laugh.
Oh, he had seen it, the glimpse of fear and terror in the corners of the man's eyes. The prey standing directly in front of him, ready to be shattered. There had been some beauty within this moment. The silence before the storm. The mortal was unusually strong, he had to give him that. In terms of combat, he would be a worthy opponent. But time for revenge had not yet come.
The Noldo had just stood there, watching the Man stumble backwards, after the clash.
But he had restrained himself, with an almost otherworldly effort of will.
Bound by promises...
Ráolor stopped, and sighed.
He had promised Faorie. He had promised the lady Danel. The mortal had to live. His jaw had to be intact. He had to be able to speak.
The sculptor would only pay him a visit with Faörie being present, too.
Thendryt was a friend of hers...
How can they be so blind, she and Lilleduil?! He thought. They do not know with what they are dealing with.
Their lives are in danger.
Fear crept into his mind. No, that would not happen.
He would not let that abomination touch Faörie. One broken finger of hers meant one broken spine for Thendryt. One complain of hers would mean a world of hatred, violence and pain clashing upon this man's head! He would make sure that damned mortal remembered his bloody mistakes!
Traitors! Defilers!
They were like a sickness. Covering Arda with their foulness.
The race of man was responsible for the suffering of Arda!
They had been given so much power, and knowledge. He knew about Númenórë. He knew about its history. The Men of Númenór once had had the chance to destroy the enemy, to strip him off his form, and chase his spirit away into the void.
They had failed. Blinded by power and hungry for wealth and dominion, they had taken him captive, looting Barad Dûr instead of destroying it.
Taking the Abhorred captive!
They had doomed the island of Númenórë by this defeat.
Traitors! Defilers!
During the Last Alliance, Ráolor had fought alongside Men once more. He had seen courage, and valour. Indeed, for a moment he even had believed in the righteousness of the Dúnedáin.
But then news had reached the north... news about the victory that was a defeat in truth.
The son of the king had cut off the enemy's mighty weapon, and had taken it for himself. The Abhorred was given the opportunity to endure for another age. Arda would suffer again... and again. Wars would rage again. Art, and knowledge would fade. It was all because the weapon of the enemy had not been destroyed.
Ráolor looked at the rising stars in the evening sky, silent. He would never speak of this in public. Secrecy was necessary when dealing with these matters.
The race of Man is an expression of failure, he thought.
And Thendryt Morsson was a threat, a disgrace and an offense to Imladris, to the Noldor and to all Eldar in general.
-
"It takes longer than we thought to fix the damage, hír! If you want, you can take this as a replacement, until we have finished with your hauberk."
Ráolor looked down at the piece of chainmail offered to him. Maedan the Armourer managed an insecure smile, but there was fear in the depth of his gaze.
"What is this!"
The Noldo grabbed the chainmail, and began to tear it apart with bare hands, throwing the remainings violently at the ground.
"This is armour?! This is a disgrace! How dare you offering me such a disaster!
What is this?! What is this?!" he roared, holding the last parts of the once beautiful chainmail piece, shaking it wrathfully in front of poor Maedan's face.
He threw it down, glared at the armourer once more and growled: "Enough of this silly nonsense. Repair my hauberk. You have one more day."
The sculptor turned away and left the market of Imladris.
The armourers looked at each other.
"What have we done to him, for Elbereth's sake?"
