Beth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elfwannabe) wrote2013-04-12 12:57 am
elfwannabe) wrote2013-04-12 12:57 am
Entry tags:
Silmarillion fic
Title: Bravery in Death
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings/Tolkien Universe
Characters/Pairings: Celebrimbor
Summary: A captured Celebrimbor is tortured for information, but remains defiant.
Notes: This is written assuming one-sided love for Galadriel, as mentioned in one of the stories in Unfinished Tales and with the assumption that he played a part in the First Kinslaying and pretty much regretted/hated everything that came of the whole mess.
Warnings: Graphic violence, explicit torture. It's not a pleasant story.
Another gloved first slammed into the side of his face. Celebrimbor made no move to fight it; he just picked himself up off the ground after the blow, spitting blood as he looked up at his captors, his eyes dark and unfocused.
“I’ll ask again, elf. The rings. The three you made. Where are they?”
It took time for him to process the sounds into words. Deep, guttural, unnatural sounds that blurred together if he did not concentrate. Questions, threats- it didn't matter; it all sounded equally vile.
He tried to respond, to refuse defiantly as befit a descendant of Fëanor, but his mouth was dry and his head still swam. In the end, all he could manage was a shake of his head.
The... the creature spoke again, turning to his underlings with a laugh. Black Speech this time. He would have to wait to see what was to come.
He knew what it was as soon as he smelled it. Fire, coal, and hot iron- the smells of the forge, smells he had once found comfort in. But now he jerked back against his chains instinctively. It did no good, of course. The iron seared his skin again. Like a heifer being branded, he thought, before all thought left him.
And he screamed.
The iron was removed and his flesh came with it. And the smell, oh, the smell. He retched and one of his captors kicked it back into his face, laughing. It splattered the fresh wound.
He closed his eyes and thought of them.
He thought of Gil-galad with his shining armour and his keen lance. Of the way his jaw set when he was determined and how his words had a way of strengthening a quaking heart.
But most of all, he thought of her. He thought of sunlight glinting off of long golden tresses, of soft laughter and gentle hands. He thought of how she stood, tall and proud, defiant to the end. And he remembered her eyes- eyes which had seen so much sorrow, so much pain and yet never failed to seek out the best in all of them.
He could not betray them. He could not betray her. So much of his life- and the lives of his kin- had been a mistake. The Oath, the Kinslayings- there was no making up for them. But this. This he could do. He had not always lived as he should have, but he could die as he should. As he must.
So, when the iron came again, he endured it. Minutes, hours, days blended together in a dark haze of pain and hopelessness. Until, at last, the screams stopped.
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings/Tolkien Universe
Characters/Pairings: Celebrimbor
Summary: A captured Celebrimbor is tortured for information, but remains defiant.
Notes: This is written assuming one-sided love for Galadriel, as mentioned in one of the stories in Unfinished Tales and with the assumption that he played a part in the First Kinslaying and pretty much regretted/hated everything that came of the whole mess.
Warnings: Graphic violence, explicit torture. It's not a pleasant story.
Another gloved first slammed into the side of his face. Celebrimbor made no move to fight it; he just picked himself up off the ground after the blow, spitting blood as he looked up at his captors, his eyes dark and unfocused.
“I’ll ask again, elf. The rings. The three you made. Where are they?”
It took time for him to process the sounds into words. Deep, guttural, unnatural sounds that blurred together if he did not concentrate. Questions, threats- it didn't matter; it all sounded equally vile.
He tried to respond, to refuse defiantly as befit a descendant of Fëanor, but his mouth was dry and his head still swam. In the end, all he could manage was a shake of his head.
The... the creature spoke again, turning to his underlings with a laugh. Black Speech this time. He would have to wait to see what was to come.
He knew what it was as soon as he smelled it. Fire, coal, and hot iron- the smells of the forge, smells he had once found comfort in. But now he jerked back against his chains instinctively. It did no good, of course. The iron seared his skin again. Like a heifer being branded, he thought, before all thought left him.
And he screamed.
The iron was removed and his flesh came with it. And the smell, oh, the smell. He retched and one of his captors kicked it back into his face, laughing. It splattered the fresh wound.
He closed his eyes and thought of them.
He thought of Gil-galad with his shining armour and his keen lance. Of the way his jaw set when he was determined and how his words had a way of strengthening a quaking heart.
But most of all, he thought of her. He thought of sunlight glinting off of long golden tresses, of soft laughter and gentle hands. He thought of how she stood, tall and proud, defiant to the end. And he remembered her eyes- eyes which had seen so much sorrow, so much pain and yet never failed to seek out the best in all of them.
He could not betray them. He could not betray her. So much of his life- and the lives of his kin- had been a mistake. The Oath, the Kinslayings- there was no making up for them. But this. This he could do. He had not always lived as he should have, but he could die as he should. As he must.
So, when the iron came again, he endured it. Minutes, hours, days blended together in a dark haze of pain and hopelessness. Until, at last, the screams stopped.