Work Text:
Doriath, F. A. 506
First came the cold, then the pain. Tyelkormo stuggled to move as consciousness returned to his body, his eyes opening to a miasma of darkness and ruin. He inhaled sharply as his vision cleared, but It was not fresh air that filled his lungs, but the stench of death.
His last memory was of facing Dior in a desperate, brutal clash, until both warriors lay wounded upon the floor in the halls of Menegroth. So why was he here…in the field where the fallen had been dragged, where crows and vultures had already begun to harvest their bounty?
Again he tried to move, gasping for breath as the taste of blood filled his mouth. A sickening realization settled over him; not only was he alive, but he was trapped beneath the corpses of his own men. He clawed at the mangled armor of a fallen kinsman in a desperate attempt to dislodge himself, ignoring the crushing pain in his chest until he finally broke free. He forced himself forward, dragging his trembling, broken body across the snow.
Silence hung over the field like a shroud, broken only by the howling of the wind and the calls of carrion birds.
His heart pounded as he struggled to remove his armor and wrap his bloodstained cloak around his shoulders. The sun rose higher in the sky, bathing the snow in golden light and illuminating the dead that lay around him. They had been his friends, his comrades. His brothers.
He would be joining them soon; it was only a matter of time before blood loss and cold would claim the battle’s last prize. He faced this reality with grim satisfaction, for what better end for a butcher? He pushed back the dark thoughts that had begun to intrude upon his mind, but memories ran rampant behind his eyes, his life flashing before him like a scene from one of Makalaurë’s overly dramatic poems.
But then he remembered.
Amid the chaos, while civilians were fleeing into the wilderness, his men had seized the king’s twin sons as hostages. They were small; little more than babies. But when asked what to do with them, he had not hesitated. “Take them into the woods and leave them for all I care. I have no time for such things.”
The words came back to him now, as cold as the wind.
Of all the unforgivable acts he had committed, none had surpassed this moment in its cruelty. One callous command, dismissively spoken in haste, had been a death warrant for innocents.
What have I done?
He dragged himself painfully to his knees. Tears and blood froze to his face as he cried out to Oromë, his voice raw with desperation. But only the wind answered. His patron’s name was a blasphemy upon his cursed lips, unheard and forsaken.
But Tyelkormo was a huntsman, was he not? His body shook violently as he forced himself to stand, eyes narrowing as they turned toward the forest that loomed before him. He knew the trail would have had long since grown cold, any tracks left behind being covered by the snow. Yet he stepped forward, one labored footfall at a time, as he headed into the woods.
He had hunted wounded prey countless times, tracking them through the thickest forests and the deepest snows. But now it was the hunter who left a trail of blood as he embarked on one final chase.
With every step his body felt heavier, dragged down both by his wounds and the guilt that gnawed at his soul. He staggered forward, ignoring the pain that flared with every breath, summoning the last of his strength as he pushed deeper into the woods. His eyes scoured the forest, searching for any sign of tracks.
The snow continued to fall, hindering his efforts as it blanketed the forest. The cold was beginning to dull his thoughts and numb his senses. How many hours had passed? How far had he walked? He couldn’t be sure. But he continued onward, relying on instincts alone as his body begain to fail.
Then, through the haze of his delirium, he saw something. A hallucination, perhaps? But as he drew closer, his heart skipped a beat.
He nearly collapsed when he saw them, lying nestled between the roots of a fallen tree, their small bodies half covered in a light blanket of snow. He dropped to his knees and brushed the frost from their faces, noting the blue tinge of their lips as he frantically checked for a pulse. Then one of them stirred and let out a barely audible whimper. Eluréd and Elurín were alive.
Alive, perhaps, but not for long. The temperature was dropping and surely wolves were on the prowl. Tyelkormo drew his cloak around the twins as he pulled them into his arms, using what life he had left to keep them warm and shield them from the cold. He was no father, no guardian. He was a killer. But even as his own heartbeat grew weak and erratic, he clung to them as if they were his own. His breaths came more slowly now, each one a painful rasp as he gently tightened his arms around the children and bowed his head.
The aftermath of the attack had been catastrophic, with heavy losses on both sides and Menegroth left abandoned. Scouts were sent into the wilderness to search for the missing, but none were to be found. Or so it would seem, until a young Doriathrin soldier encountered what appeared to be footprints in the snow, splattered with blood.
He followed the trail until he came across a body leaning against a fallen tree, wrapped tightly in a heavy woolen cloak. He drew closer, his eyes widening in horror when recognized the lifeless face of the enemy.
The scout sneered derisively as he nudged the corpse with his boot. "So this is where you ran to, coward.”
He knelt and pulled back the tattered cloak, then suddenly recoiled as if he had been burned. Nestled against the body of the fallen warrior and tucked under his arms were two small children, nearly frozen and barely breathing…yet alive.