F.A. 538
He knew she was here; she had to be. Where else was there for her to go, save for the wilds? And, even if she had wandered, he knew for certain that, eventually, her path would lead her here. She, like him, could not let certain things go forever. Though she was silent, she would most certainly speak in the only way she could, and the words of warning over what would be - what was certainly happening now - would be given to anyone who would listen.
Except, they hadn't listened. Or, if they did, the people about Elwing remained stubborn in their defiance and heeded them not. Otherwise, Satarion's liege lord and his brother would not be here with their hosts, ready to take what was rightfully theirs.
Was this all worth it?
Ever since he had first bloodied his hands at Alqualondë he had asked himself that question over and over. He had tried every which way to cope with the fact that he could never escape what he had done. Whether dreaming or waking, the stains would never wash away. No amount of love or hatred or could remove it. Pretending it didn't exist or justifying himself in the dead of night and the coming of dawn failed to erase the persistent ache in his heart and the screams of the dying in his ears. It all overshadowed every single aspect of his life and there was next to nothing he could do about it now. Or, could he? Would this, too, end like all his other choices?
It was utter madness!
For years, the soldiers who remained under his command watched as their Captain seemed to slowly unravel within, though he remained unflinching and hard as steel when others were looking. Even his aide, Terevo, had become increasingly concerned, though his loyalty never wavered.
How do you save someone from a madness of their own making?
As the followers of the Sons of Fëanor descended upon the Havens of Sirion, none but Terevo noticed when Satarion slipped away, as if drawn by something only he could see. Further and further he followed his superior as the sounds of fighting started and echoed across the marshlands leading out to the ocean, even up towards a rockly cliff side that was near impossible to scale quickly. Yet, Satarion had done so, as if driven by his ever-growing madness.
Once he reached the outcropping atop the cliff, there he beheld a sight he had hoped he'd never see again. Beyond Satarion was his Captain's accursed daughter with her arms thrown out to either side of herself, shielding a child who had run away from the fighting. The scene that unfolded before Terevo's eyes ignited a white-hot rage within him.
"You live! Daughter of mine, you live."
The tip of her spear was thrust out towards him in response; a warning, not a threat. Uncontrolled and unconsoled fear and defiance were reflected back from her green eyes towards him. How such an increasingly familiar look broke Satarion's heart and mind over and over again. No matter what he did, she would always fear him; he understood that now. Any lingering hope he might have possessed fled him in an instant, leaving him frozen and devastated. But, honestly, what had he expected? What had he ever expected?
In the blink of an eye, Nautiel turned and began to help the crying child scale the other side of the gnarled and half-eroded cliff face, like one would a tree, down toward the icy-cold sea water to escape.
To escape him, his mind supplied; he knew it to be true.
All he could do was watch helplessly, arm outstretched toward a daughter, a wife, a family, a reality, he could never have. He could barely see her now, steel eyes filling with all the endless tears he had long refused to shed in these lands. The world felt like it was caving in on him, crushing him with the weight of his own failure.
"My lord!"
The cutting tone of his aide sliced through the air, mingled with the sound of screams and steel upon steel. He gathered what was left of himself up and turned to face Terevo, who now looked at him with a mixture of desperation and rage.
"... Tell them it's over. We will be spilling no more blood on these shores."
"You cannot mean that. Not after all we have fought for."
"It is over!" roared Satarion, brandishing his sword as he attempted to push past Terevo, who pushed him back with his forearm.
"This is TREASON, Captain! We cannot stop now, not even for that treasonous daughter of yours. If you will not, I will slay her myself!"
Terevo barely had time to react as the cold steel of Satarion's great sword collided with his own. That still-familiar battle-rage he had seen upon his superior's face resurfaced once more but, this time, it was mingled with grief. This was not the look of an elf ready and willing to make rivers run with blood. Rather, this was the look of someone with one precious thing left to lose and no regard for his own life.
And, that told Terevo all he needed to know. He felt disgust form like acid in his stomach as he struggled. Over and over they clashed, all respect forgotten between lord and servant, bruising each other with both blade and fists.
But, it became clear that whatever fire was left within Satarion would soon burn out. And, Terevo saw his advantage. This time, steel met a weakness in armor and then pale skin beneath it. In no time at all, the rocky ground was stained with blood and Satarion finally fell, unable to move as his life quickly bled out of him. The dust settled, the fire went out, yet, for the first time in an age, he felt that all was quiet in his head. The shouts and wails had faded to whispers. The crushing weight became like a heavy blanket he could not and did not want to push off.
He turned his head to look out toward the endless sea. As his vision began to dim, he saw Terevo step over to the cliff side and roar in frustration. Nautiel and child were gone beyond their reach. He had lost, but he had won.
He missed Gladil, his wife.
And then, darkness took him.
They were too late. The hosts of Círdan and Gil-galad were met with the remnants of carnage and a small group of survivors by the time they had arrived. The remaining Sons of Fëanor were gone and so, too, was Elwing and her family. All that remained now was to tend to the injured, bury the dead, and gather those that remained.
A child was found walking along the marsh, met by a servant of Gil-galad. Save for a few scrapes and bruises, the child was unharmed and did not protest to being picked up. But when the servant looked out over the marshland toward the cliffs, his keen sight picked up on another figure, dragging someone toward the sea.
She had found him later, when she returned to that cliff. She wasn't sure why she came. She hadn't seen him leave with the rest of the thrice cursed Fëanorians.
At first, she couldn't bear to look at him where he lay, broken and defeated. It made her shake to even draw near and poke at his still form with the blunt end of her spear. But, when she finally did find the courage to look on him, she saw that he had died with the ghost of a smile upon his face.
She couldn't understand it. How could someone like him die like that?
She couldn't understand herself. Why did she still quake in fear when the source of her greatest fear was gone and dead?
She still saw pieces of herself in him.
It took long hours to drag his heavy, armored body down the cliff. He was certainly dropped a few times when the weight became too much. But, she reasoned, it didn't matter much anymore.
He became heavier as she dragged him into the sea. When she came to the drop-off, far from the marshy shores, she let him go, staring into the depths as his body sank like a stone. She remained until she could see no trace of him and waded back toward the shore.
By the time she could stand upright, unencumbered by water, she collapsed in the marsh, making no noise as she let her tears mingle with the waters of the river Sirion, flowing out toward the waves.
Satarion was dead. Nautiel lived.
Why, then, did it feel like none of it mattered? Why did it feel like a hollow victory?
When would it stop?
