Wind of remorse... Wind of horror, and memory.
A cold wind hit his face once he had reached a higher viewpoint upon the Andram.
Summer had passed. The bitterness of Narquelië had once again come to Beleriand.
The days had grown dark.
There it was, on the horizon in the north. A shadowed line... was it dark green? Or black?
He did not know.
But he remembered.
He remembered the view of trees from afar, like a distant, dark green wave.
Whistling, the harsh wind kept biting his face.
From under the helmet, his long dark hair was whirling around his neck, hitting his cheeks like whips.
And his red cloak was hitting his legs like a whip, and the Star of Fëanor depicted upon the cloak moved left and right, like a spider awaiting its prey.
Whips of remorse and horror... whips of memory.
He grasped the hilt of his Falqan, and swiftly he drew the long weapon, throwing the sheath away. Neither would he sheath the blade. Nor wield it ever again. Time has come to get rid of the gnawing sickness.
Gnawing remorse. Gnawing horror... and memory.
He took a deep breath, and began his descent, towards far Doriath.
Land of remorse... land of horror, and memory.
Eventually, he had reached he heart of Beleriand.
The memories hit his chest like a battering ram, taking his breath away for a while.
Of the holly trees, only few had survived the ravaging Ork hordes and plundering Easterling groups.
What had once been the proud area of Region in Doriath, was now a barren waste, with crouching bushes and gray stones.
And trees on the horizon...not green, but black.
Burned, crooked, lifeless. Like petrified witnesses mourning in the wind.
And then he saw the graves.
The Fëanorians had buried the fallen Doriathrim, in ornate tombs made of stone and wood.
Brave warriors, defending Dior Eluchíl their king, and Doriath their country.
But of what he remembered, nothing had remained.
The tombs had been broken and ravaged.
Covered with filth and dust, the bones had been thrown around for amusement, stripping the fallen off their honour.
Indeed, without Elwë Thingol and the Girdle of Melian, and without the Doriathrim protecting the borders, the Orks had finally marched into Doriath...
But what about the Fëanorians? Where they any better than the Children of Melkor?
Compared to murdering own kin, the vile abominations of Ork-kind seemed nicer, kinder even.
The weight upon his shoulders was too much. The memories crushed him.
He fell on his knees before the bones, and covered his face with his hands...
Bones of remorse... bones of horror, and memory.
Blade of remorse and horror... Blade of memory.
After an hour, he had given up.
He could not break the sword.
He had hammered the Falqan against a rock.
He had tried to break the weapon with his knee - to no avail.
He had cursed the blade, and everything it stood for.
But now, he knew what to do.
A tomb for a sword.
He would make it deep, and dark.
He would seal it, so the blade would never see the light of day again.
Váyasercë stood for everything he hated... his family heirloom, his oath, his training... bloodshed and cruelty, and his faults, and the faults of his ancestors.
He would bury his memories for all times, and finally forget.
Forget the times of remorse..the times of horror.
...
"Hereby I release you, vile sword of Valinor. I set you free, heirloom of the Narendúr, and bringer of suffering. Cursed you are, and blood is upon your edge. The blood of Alqualondë, and the blood of Doriath. Wrong have your wielders done, and through your bloodlust suffered guilt and shame beyond measure. This will end now and here. From Aman you came, and in Beleriand you have dwelled. I give you now back to Beleriand, so it may cover you forever, for this realm cannot be broken. Once you belonged to Ráolor son of Macilwë, nasty warmonger of Lothlann. I, Ráolor, will bury you now. You shall belong to Beleriand forever.
Fall now, sink deep and be gone unto the world's ending!"
He had spoken these words...
Words of remorse. Words of horror, and memory.
He had thrown the sword into the darkness.
It was done.
He had sealed the simple tomb.
He had not marked it.
No signs, no decoration. Nothing.
He would not remember.
He would never return.
Kneeling, he looked upon the tomb for one last time.
He would forget, and finally be at peace.
The Kinslayer stood up, and he turned his back to Doriath, never to return.
He turned his back to remorse, and horror, and memory... to no avail.
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(Next chapter: The Bloody Remorse of A Sculptor )
