#in which oma tries to insist that the feanorions aren't *all* bad actually

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

oc-tober 2021, day 20: tear with @oc-growth-and-development

‘i’m gonna split prompts up equally between my characters :)’ i say, picking the helf trio for a full third of them

===

He should have taken Sileär’s offer, he thinks, as the Havens fill up with the last remnants of Beleriand. He draws attention here by his speech, especially from the survivors of Doriath, but he his suffered to carry his blade here, and was before they arrived, and so none have raised a hand against him. Yet.

Silmeniel takes his arm, that day, pulling him through the markets beside her and smiling pleasantly at those they pass while hissing que4stions at him under her breath.

“Yes,” Halthel says quietly. “You heard aright. They demanded the gem.”

“And were refused.” Silmeniel’s grip on his arm tightens. “You know what will come next.”

“Better than many here, I suspect.” Silmeniel glances at him.

“You may at that.” She looks around the market. Halthel can feel the unease, the anticipation of ruin repeated. “I wish Sileär were here still,” Silmeniel murmurs. “She left to return to Balar already.” Halthel looks back towards the bay, where only a handful of ships sit moored. A chill runs through him.

“What is it?” Silmeniel asks.

“You should stay near the harbor,” he says softly, and hears the faintest echo in his own words. He sighs, and unbuckles a long dagger from its hidden place between sleeve and forearm. “Take this. I know,” he says, forestalling her protest. “But it is better than nothing.” Silmeniel stares long at the dagger, with the bright star set proudly in the crossguard, but she takes it.

“I hope you are wrong.”

He isn’t.

He knows, when the shouting begins, what has finally come- or rather, who. He leaves off all that remains of his armour, blazoned too brightly with their star. His sword at least he can bear without fear, had in trade from Azaghâl’s folk, no trace of elven heraldry to be found.

He is not the only one who fights, but these are the ones who held the front against Angband; craftsmen and fisherman hold little hope against the last of the sons of Fëanor. But then, if this had ever been about hope for true victory, we would have laid down our swords after Bragollach if not before.

He knows some of those who fight, both against him and beside him. It gives some of them pause, seeing him here, but he has made this his home for years now, and he will do what he can to protect it.

His resolve nearly fails him, on the road to the docks and the Lady’s tower, as his onetime lord strides towards him, towering over him, hair blazing to match the flames around them.

“Omaruin?” he says, lowering his sword only slightly. “We thought you were lost in the Fifth Battle. What are you doing here?”

Halthel raises his sword. “I know why you are here, my lord, but I cannot let you pass.” Something flickers in his face. It almost seems like approval, but it is lost in the fierce light of the fey fire in his eyes, too much like his father’s.

“Then you know what must come next.”

Halthel steps into a guard. He doesn’t hold long.

---

“Halthel. Halthel!”

He gasps himself awake under smoke-choked skies with Sileär kneeling over him. He coughs, and his right side screams in protest.

“Sileär,” he gasps. “What-”

“Hush,” she says, quiet but firm. “Save your breath.” She fusses at his side, peeling away his bloody tunic with a grimace.

“I have had worse,” he says. Sileär raises a skeptical brow and he smiles weakly. “It is the truth.” She sighs.

“Well, this is not like to kill you, if it hasn’t already,” she says brusquely. “But it will not be pleasant.” She heaves him upright without warning and he barely strangles a scream.

“Wait- wait. Sword,” he pants as Sileär tries to haul him away. She grumbles, but he can see the hilt sticking out beneath a pile of still-smoking timbers. “Why let a good blade… go to waste.” Sileär only grunts and pulls more of his weight onto her shoulders.

“Will they return?” Halthel asks between painful, lurching steps. “What happened?” Sileär is silent. “Sileär?”

“They did not claim their prize,” she says eventually. “I- we returned too late. We saw the smoke and sailed as quickly as we could, but… Eärendil has still not returned from his last voyage, and the little princes were captured.” Her mouth works silently.

“And Lady Elwing?”

“She leapt. We saw her, from her tower, like a falling star.”

His mind spins (though it may be his injuries), trying to fit the pieces together. “She took the Silmaril with her.” Sileär nods. “They cannot have their jewel. They will not come back.” Sileär snorts. “They will not.” He blames his weak and weary body for what comes next, said aloud rather than kept safe in his mind. “The twins will be safe.”

Sileär stops. “What?”

“Ah-”

“They were kidnapped, and by the Fëanorions no less!”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing.” Her grip is painful on his arms. “I have half a mind to leave you here, you know.”

Then why come back at all? “Which ones? Which of the brothers?”

Sileär spits. “The two eldest. The younger two were slain.” Halthel sighs a little.

“With no Silmaril to chase, they will do right by the twins,” he says quietly.

“Like they did by Elwing’s brothers?” He stays silent and Sileär shakes her head. “You have a great deal of faith in them, even after all of this.”

“I know them a far sight better than you,” he says, an edge in his voice. They are good people, he thinks. He had been happy to follow them in Himring. They are. When they can be.

“Where are we going?” he asks after too long a silence.

“Balar, for the time being,” she says shortly, hailing Helegthir on the beach. Halthel drags his feet. “Quit that,” Sileär snaps. “No one will stay here, and you will only find trouble alone.”

“I can manage,” he grinds out.

“Be quiet and get on the ship.” He still eyes the waves of the bay distrustfully. “You crossed swords with Maedhros and lived,” she says dryly. “Get on the ship and go find Silmeniel.” Reluctantly he obeys, and soon Imroval is underway, tearing through the waves like- like a sword through an unarmoured body, he finishes sourly, letting Silmeniel tend to him, his dagger on her hip.

#oc-tober #lotro #or #in which oma tries to insist that the feanorions aren't *all* bad actually #to his teleri best friend #ongoing [screams in silm] etc etc #est verse stuff #sil & om #silear seasheen #silmeniel #omaruin