Work Text:
Of the Faithful who were children when Ar-Pharazon came to power, maybe half survived till their hundredth birthday. They were brave with the recklessness of youth; they had no families of their own to worry about... they threw themselves into a whirlwind of conspiracy with careless abandon. We did. We thought ourselves strong, and for the most part we were, but that strength shone brightest in death. They were slain; I had all the luck. I escaped.
I dream of them a lot these days. In my dreams they laugh, they wear red and cloth-of-gold, red like the blood that sank into their tunics, gold like the sunlight. Their voices are carefree, their eyes are glad, whom I last saw taken away in terror. Once I watched my brother unsheathe a sword out of thin air; it glinted like a blade of wind or light, and he looked like a victorious champion of a long finished battle.
They are not flesh and blood, nor ghosts, not flight of fancy, nor mere memory either, and when I wake, I don't know if I should laugh or cry.
Farewell, bright, brave spirits, who versed their own blood for the sake of truth and thought of it nothing more than what had to be done. Farewell, boys I loved, who pledged themselves to honour and wedded death. You who wanted to be heroes and never dreamed about the magnanimity of sacrifice required of you, who did not know with your last breaths how great the fight in which you laid down your lives, farewell. We were young, and it seemed so much like play, like a story, then, until it suddenly didn't. And now I am old; I will never pass the trials you did, I shall never again fight your wars, but I hope to lay eyes on you again one day. I lived for you, all those years. Did you die for me?
It was a greyer world without you, for us who carried the torch. I miss you still.