F.A. 530
She could see that they were tormented by it; everyone in the camp could. The remaining Sons of Fëanor walked around in recent days like they stood upon the edge of some sharp precipice, ready to plunge into the depths of madness. Though they had forsworn their Oath almost a decade ago when they discovered that one of their father’s accursed jewels had been taken to Sirion, words meant nothing to her; she, who had seen them kill for it without a second thought.
Words meant nothing to all those who had died because of them. The years had come and gone and she saw no justice for it; not for the dead and not for her. Otherwise, she reasoned, she would not be kept here like some sort of prisoner of war, though her father certainly wouldn't call it that. But at this moment, even Satarion's words mattered very little to her as well. What good were they when his wife, her mother, had been killed on the command of those he served?
Words words words! That's all anyone cared about it seemed; words they could speak, hear, and put down in writing. Words that could be used to say one thing and then were rescinded when actions told another story. What good were words in the face of an unfulfilled Oath?
And yet, here she stood, outside the large tent, wherein Maedhros was holding his council. Rain began to fall and make small muddy rivers in the camp. The sound of rumbling thunder echoed from the clouded skies above but it did nothing to shake her resolve. Within those eyes, the color of new spring leaves, was a fire that would not go out until its fury was spent. If no one else here had the conscience to try and stop the inevitable, she would.
With quick strides, Nautiel approached with all the poise of a viper ready to strike. With a sweep of her arm, she threw back the tent flap with no air of ceremony and tracked mud across the strewn rugs. With her hands clenched and her unkempt, rain-bedraggled appearance, she looked like some escaped thrall of Morgoth to those present. Uncaring of protocol and respect, she refused to bend her head or even to bow when she finally stood before the seated figure of Maedhros The Tall. All movement came to a halt as his grey eyes settled upon her. One of his guardsmen finally stepped forward to remove her but was halted by a wave from his copper-haired leader who looked surprisingly curious despite his obvious ill temper.
A ringed hand lifted, beckoning her closer. His expression, while calm, belied a growing storm within that could very well rival the one that was brewing outside. It was clear that his patience was wearing thin. However, when she made her first move, it was also clear that she did not care.
A series of coordinated gestures issued forth from her hands, fierce, angry, but restrained... for the moment. And Maedhros understood none of them. He let out a barely audible, annoyed sigh and turned to his councilors. "What is she saying?" Silence and stillness reigned supreme until one of few who could understand this form of speech, having learned it to strengthen their tactics against those of Doriath in the past, dared to stand and step forward, fearing that to keep silent would risk his lord's ire even further.
"... She is saying: 'Turn your gaze away from Sirion and leave those who live there in peace. The torment of your Oath is your own. They do not have to burn like you do.'..."
Thunder boomed outside as tension permeated the air; cloying, choking. The fire that burned within her eyes was matched by the slow-catching, strong one within his own. He straightened in his seat, lifted his chin, and looked her up and down. It was difficult to tell if he regarded her as a mere nuisance or a treasonous snake. Though he would not allow anyone to see it as such, her words, however strangely she spoke them, were barbed and a blow had been struck.
"I fail to see how it is any of your concern. You, like others here, are to do as you are told. Are you so ill-raised or are you just slow? But, I am curious... What would you do if I told you: I will not?"
His words were like poison in her ears. She may have struck the first blow but he would not let her forget who was predator and who was prey. The wind howled in the branches of the trees high up above the camp. Some councilors rose from their seats to rekindle lamps that had been extinguished. Lightning flashed, illuminating the way her expression twisted into one of pain. She took one step forward... and another... and another.
She veered to the side and moved toward a table whereupon a map of Beleriand was spread. She raised her hand and set her fingers upon it, tracing over the inked lines and markings as one in a trance. Ever westwards she guided her fingers over paths, trees, notes, and landmarks until they settled upon a red-inked marking that had been clearly drawn over the Havens of Sirion.
It dawned on her then that her plea had been wholly in vain. It would make no difference what she said; he had already decided. The sons of Fëanor would march on Sirion - in a day, week, month, or years - and slaughter all those who resisted. Once again, his words, given just years before, had been proven to be lies. Or, if they had not been lies, then she counted him as one without honor and the worst sort of villain, torment or no. Pain was quickly replaced with anguished rage as she turned to face him fully. Even where she stood and he sat, he was taller than she and would not be cowed.
And though she could see this, she did not care.
Insults, curses, and explicatives were all but shouted at him with each sign she made, too fast, too volatile for the councilor to translate without eventually falling into shocked silence. But, no translations were really needed now. Her intent and message was clear. Maedhros' expression darkened as he moved to stand but, still, Nautiel did not care. She crossed the space to the table bearing the map and upended it with a CRASH! forcing others to stand and move away from her for fear of being knocked backwards by the sheer force. A few stepped forward to restrain her but she managed to evade their grasp and upended another table, flinging it away from her and throwing scrolls, food and drink, and other personal effects to the ground.
Nothing and none of this would change anything; she knew this. Yet, all these years of loss, pain, anger, grief, and helplessness could no longer be suppressed and there was no other way to release it but to destroy whatever she could get her hands on.
In no time at all she had reduced the entire tent into a veritable disaster of destroyed documents and broken furniture. However, her tirade did not last long as Maedhros pushed past his guardsman and servants to take ahold of her himself, one hand closing in a death-grip about her wrist and the other her throat. She was and never had been a match for the likes of him. Lightning lit up the camp again as she found herself hurled through the air with great force, falling out of the tent and being flung far from it, onto the muddy ground.
The mud did little to soften her fall as the rocky ground beneath it was now exposed by the rain. The back of her head struck the hard ground as she crumpled, making her attempts to right herself and get back up a pathetic failure. Her vision went in and out, though she could see him exiting the tent, heedless of the pouring rain, and moving towards her with long, menacing strides; the fire in his grey gaze now an untamable inferno.
She was going to die here. He was going to kill her. What was one more life to him, she thought. And what was this life to her; trapped here under the supervision and care of the person she feared the most, her mother killed, her home destroyed? Perhaps it was better if she did die now. Then, she wouldn't have to witness the inevitable.
But death did not come. Through the booming of thunder she heard her name being called. Someone dressed in a soldier's raiment ran past her prone form and all but collapsed in front of Maedhros. His voice was desperate; begging pleading with his liege lord. She could hear him as she drifted towards unconsciousness.
"She -... -not in her right-..."
"Spare her, my-... -will not happen again."
"... -have left."
The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Maedhros - who looked to be some strange, macabre combination of enraged and tormented - bringing the back of his hand across her father's cheek.
When she woke again she was lying on a healer's cot. Her muddy garments had been exchanged for dry ones and the mess of her raven dark hair, still damp from the rain was combed away from her face. She tasted dried blood on her lips and realized that her nose must have bled at some point. When she tried to sit up, she winced in pain as all her limbs and muscles and even her head screamed in protest. But this did nothing to prevent her from nearly jumping out her own skin when she saw her father sitting nearby, sporting a heavily bruised cheek, watching her.
The mirrored pain in Satarion's expression did nothing to quell the fear that seemed to overtake her entire being. She rolled off the cot and away from him, flinching as he stood and pursued her out of concern.
"Daughter please, you cannot do this," he began as softly as he could manage to be, reaching out a hand to her, though he looked unsure about trying to either comfort her or calm her. But none of that seemed to matter as she knocked his hand away from her with as much force as she could muster.
He reached out again, despair darkening his steel gaze. "The next time he could really kill you. What if I did not make it there in time to beg for his forgiveness?"
She slapped his hand away again, nails scratching his skin like some sort of wild beast.
"Nautiel, you cannot do this anymore!"
She rolled away from him, despite the pain it caused her and crouched in the corner of the tent, ready to spring should he come near her again. There was nothing of the begrudgingly compliant person that he had thought she had become. Whatever he had considered to be some sort of progress between them was absent.
Go away, her defensive posture said. Leave me alone, she pleaded with her eyes.
Satarion, regretting raising his voice to her, stopped his pursuit and merely stood there, looking lost.
"You cannot do this anymore..."
Silence passed between them as it ever had.
His shoulders slumped and he pressed his fingers into his temples, as if relieving a headache. Nautiel watched her father seem to fight with himself internally, still not moving from her crouched position, always ready to escape, always ready to run to whatever corner she could hide in until she was forced back into his presence.
And then she watched him leave the healer's tent, stepping back out into the quelling storm with an air of momentary defeat. Or, perhaps it was madness? Whatever it was, she still feared it, even as she crawled, all but broken, back to the cot...
