As by my own hand
Feb. 14th, 2025 11:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
0ur_ouroborosAuthor: 0ur_ouroboros
Title: As by my own hand
Source / Fandom: Silmarillion
Relationships: Aredhel/Eöl
Rating: teen + (some disturbing themes)
Warning: canon-typical violence
Crossposted to AO3
Time passes in Nan Elmoth.
Strange that Aredhel cannot be certain how much. She thinks summer has come and gone three, maybe four times since she arrived. But the darkness never lifts, it only changes shape and shade. She asks Eöl, beside her now, if it’s always like this here, if he has always been here.
He smiles and strokes her hair. “No. I lived in Doriath. For a time.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I prefer the forest. It suits me. These are my lands.”
“Were you born in Doriath?”
“No. In Cuiviénen, under the stars. Long ago.”
“Cuiviénen? You’re older than I thought.”
Eöl only offers a little laugh in that deep, rumbling way of his and continues stroking her hair, lying beside her in bed, in the dark.
Always in the dark.
“Why didn’t you follow Oromë and come to Aman?”
Eöl pauses, prompting her to look up, for she is slowly learning how to see. “I didn’t have that choice,” he says, tone full of caution. “I was taken.”
“Taken?” Surely he cannot mean what she thinks, for she knows the origin of orcs.
He takes her hand. “I will share my story, one that few have lived to tell,” he starts. “But only because you are my wife, you are mine, and a wife should know her husband.”
Husband. They have never discussed this, Aredhel realizes now. How strange. She supposes he is her husband by her people’s laws and customs, but surely she would’ve considered the implications of their act. She squints; she has no recollection why she did not. This place, she thinks. Regardless, there seems not much to be done about it now. She will live with the consequences of her choice. And silently, she resolves to make the best of this life. Their life, now, together. “It would please me to have your trust, husband.”
“The Enemy took me, along with many others. To the black iron mountains. A fortress, deep and dark.”
“How were you captured?”
Eöl inhales deeply and continues. “Gathering mushrooms with my mother, on the hill above Cuiviénen. We wandered too far. My mother did not believe the tales of the shadow-shapes. Dark riders overtook us, bound us. We rode for days, weeks – The spirits of the west came soon after we arrived, but they delved not deep enough. The Enemy’s servant – Gorthaur – was ever watchful. He knew all the pits where none would look.”
“But Morgoth was chained, captured –”
“And Gorthaur ruled in his stead. I was his thrall for many long years. He perfected the orcs Morgoth began. He took my mother. He – used her, twisted her, a mockery,” His voice chokes off and he pauses.
Aredhel wishes to comfort her new husband. She searches for words to relieve the ancient pain he carries still; finding none, she only nestles closer and caresses his pale face.
Eöl leans into her touch. “Once Gorthaur learned I was good with my hands, he began to take me to the forges with him. He was skilled at craft; he taught me much, for the orcs grew in number and he was eager to arm them, for he knew peace would not last. I made weapons using new techniques – I was naive and knew not they would be used to kill my own. I only knew I enjoyed the craft, enjoyed being at his side, developing new ways to work the iron better, faster. I became valuable to him, worth too much to subject to his experiments, what he did to the others. After a time, he bid me accompany his host to the battlefield, small skirmishes then, training really for the orcs. In the aftermath of the slaughter, he had me recover what might be salvaged from the field. Broken weapons, armor - he despised waste. I saw – much, you could not comprehend, even for all your kind has done,” he stops to gather himself, glassy-eyed. Aredhel says nothing, just holds his hand until he clears his throat and continues.
“After one particularly brutal pillaging, as I was scouring the field, I pulled an axe that bore my maker’s mark from the body of one I knew, long ago. From home. We had played together as children, games of pretend - My friend. Then I knew blood spilled that day was as much by my hands as if I had been the one to drive the axe through his skull myself. You see, I could have refused Gorthaur, let him torture me, use me as he did others. But I chose my life over them, my kin. So I escaped, that very day, for Gorthaur had grown lenient with me. I made my way south, sought kin in Doriath.”
He sits upright. “I tell you this now only because you are my wife. This I share – this is for you and you alone. Should you betray my confidence, you will come to regret it.”
Aredhel supposes he feels vulnerable, threatened by the memory. Surely this is why he speaks so, and she should forgive him. “I only wish I could help heal–”
“There is no healing. There is only forward. So you see, wife – I prefer to live apart from those whose kin my weapons slayed. I cannot imagine what evil lurks in the hearts of the Noldor to do what I did without even Gorthaur’s threats to goad them. To slay kin for jewels.”
Aredhel would like to tell him it was more, so much more than that. She wants to tell him about the light of the Trees and her father weeping beside her grandfather’s corpse. How the Valar should have known better but listened to Morgoth spin his web of lies.
She wants to tell him these things now, have him hold her and tell her he understands.
But she does not think he ever will.
Title: As by my own hand
Source / Fandom: Silmarillion
Relationships: Aredhel/Eöl
Rating: teen + (some disturbing themes)
Warning: canon-typical violence
Crossposted to AO3
Time passes in Nan Elmoth.
Strange that Aredhel cannot be certain how much. She thinks summer has come and gone three, maybe four times since she arrived. But the darkness never lifts, it only changes shape and shade. She asks Eöl, beside her now, if it’s always like this here, if he has always been here.
He smiles and strokes her hair. “No. I lived in Doriath. For a time.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I prefer the forest. It suits me. These are my lands.”
“Were you born in Doriath?”
“No. In Cuiviénen, under the stars. Long ago.”
“Cuiviénen? You’re older than I thought.”
Eöl only offers a little laugh in that deep, rumbling way of his and continues stroking her hair, lying beside her in bed, in the dark.
Always in the dark.
“Why didn’t you follow Oromë and come to Aman?”
Eöl pauses, prompting her to look up, for she is slowly learning how to see. “I didn’t have that choice,” he says, tone full of caution. “I was taken.”
“Taken?” Surely he cannot mean what she thinks, for she knows the origin of orcs.
He takes her hand. “I will share my story, one that few have lived to tell,” he starts. “But only because you are my wife, you are mine, and a wife should know her husband.”
Husband. They have never discussed this, Aredhel realizes now. How strange. She supposes he is her husband by her people’s laws and customs, but surely she would’ve considered the implications of their act. She squints; she has no recollection why she did not. This place, she thinks. Regardless, there seems not much to be done about it now. She will live with the consequences of her choice. And silently, she resolves to make the best of this life. Their life, now, together. “It would please me to have your trust, husband.”
“The Enemy took me, along with many others. To the black iron mountains. A fortress, deep and dark.”
“How were you captured?”
Eöl inhales deeply and continues. “Gathering mushrooms with my mother, on the hill above Cuiviénen. We wandered too far. My mother did not believe the tales of the shadow-shapes. Dark riders overtook us, bound us. We rode for days, weeks – The spirits of the west came soon after we arrived, but they delved not deep enough. The Enemy’s servant – Gorthaur – was ever watchful. He knew all the pits where none would look.”
“But Morgoth was chained, captured –”
“And Gorthaur ruled in his stead. I was his thrall for many long years. He perfected the orcs Morgoth began. He took my mother. He – used her, twisted her, a mockery,” His voice chokes off and he pauses.
Aredhel wishes to comfort her new husband. She searches for words to relieve the ancient pain he carries still; finding none, she only nestles closer and caresses his pale face.
Eöl leans into her touch. “Once Gorthaur learned I was good with my hands, he began to take me to the forges with him. He was skilled at craft; he taught me much, for the orcs grew in number and he was eager to arm them, for he knew peace would not last. I made weapons using new techniques – I was naive and knew not they would be used to kill my own. I only knew I enjoyed the craft, enjoyed being at his side, developing new ways to work the iron better, faster. I became valuable to him, worth too much to subject to his experiments, what he did to the others. After a time, he bid me accompany his host to the battlefield, small skirmishes then, training really for the orcs. In the aftermath of the slaughter, he had me recover what might be salvaged from the field. Broken weapons, armor - he despised waste. I saw – much, you could not comprehend, even for all your kind has done,” he stops to gather himself, glassy-eyed. Aredhel says nothing, just holds his hand until he clears his throat and continues.
“After one particularly brutal pillaging, as I was scouring the field, I pulled an axe that bore my maker’s mark from the body of one I knew, long ago. From home. We had played together as children, games of pretend - My friend. Then I knew blood spilled that day was as much by my hands as if I had been the one to drive the axe through his skull myself. You see, I could have refused Gorthaur, let him torture me, use me as he did others. But I chose my life over them, my kin. So I escaped, that very day, for Gorthaur had grown lenient with me. I made my way south, sought kin in Doriath.”
He sits upright. “I tell you this now only because you are my wife. This I share – this is for you and you alone. Should you betray my confidence, you will come to regret it.”
Aredhel supposes he feels vulnerable, threatened by the memory. Surely this is why he speaks so, and she should forgive him. “I only wish I could help heal–”
“There is no healing. There is only forward. So you see, wife – I prefer to live apart from those whose kin my weapons slayed. I cannot imagine what evil lurks in the hearts of the Noldor to do what I did without even Gorthaur’s threats to goad them. To slay kin for jewels.”
Aredhel would like to tell him it was more, so much more than that. She wants to tell him about the light of the Trees and her father weeping beside her grandfather’s corpse. How the Valar should have known better but listened to Morgoth spin his web of lies.
She wants to tell him these things now, have him hold her and tell her he understands.
But she does not think he ever will.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-23 11:16 am (UTC)If you don't mind and it's not too much trouble, could you cross-post a link to the tolkienshortfanworks DW community for your prompt fills as well?
(It is really that DW community I'm tracking for the most part, the AO3 collection is intended more as an additional offer.)
no subject
Date: 2025-02-23 02:56 pm (UTC)