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It was amazing, he thought numbly, how the metal could still press so sharply into his wrist, when all the feeling in the rest of his arm was missing. The torment ebbed and flowed, here on the side of the cliff. There were days when the searing ash and heat made his lungs feel like they were peeling from the inside out. They probably were. But there were other days when a chill wind came down from the north and swept the air clear. It stung his infected wounds, but the way it eased his shuddering breaths made him want to cry in relief. His tears had long since evaporated, of course, and he didn't know if it was the cruel magic of his captors or of his oath that kept his fëa tied to his hröa, instead of letting it turn into a shriveled husk.
There were times when the solitude drove him to try to scream, despite his ruined throat, wanting reassurance that there were other living souls around, that he had not, in fact, slipped the bonds of life and been drawn into the Void. But there were other days, too, when he imagined he could see the stars through the heavy blanket of volcanic ash, and he felt naught but relief that Þauron had tired of him. At least here, bound to the cliffs for what felt more like eternity with each passing day, his mind and body were his own, broken though they were.
The hallucinations were, likewise, a toss up between soul breaking and gentle. He did not sleep, exactly, but Irmo, alone of the Valar, seemed able to reach him here. In the bowels of Angamando, his visions had, like every other part of him, been under the complete control of his torturers. In some ways, that had been easier. He had known, each time he watched his brothers flayed alive, his mother swanning through the dungeons to his cell only to spit on him and denounce him, his former followers burning effigies of him, he had known that these horrors came from the minds of his enemies. After the first few years, he could recognize them before they’d begun, and then he would simply close his senses to them.
But here? Here on the Thangorodrim, his visions came more organically, and thus they were far more painful, for Irmo always preferred to draw his visions from the deepest crevices of the dreamer’s mind. The cracks in his mind had been mined, hollowed out, deepened and darkened by years of both physical and psychological torture, and Irmo now had a grand feast to choose from. Would he see the memory of his father’s eyes at Losgar, when for the first time in his life, he had been unable to recognize the man who had raised and loved him? Or would he instead see his brothers, not as they were now, but as the children he had helped to raise, clawing at the gates of the Void, crying for him to save them as they had once cried over the monsters that had, at the time, been only in their imaginations?
Sometimes, the visions were kinder, though after all that he had experienced, kindness was a torture in its own right. The line between kindness and cruelty had been blurred almost out of existence for him, and he could no longer always discern if the visions he had were nightmares. When he saw his brothers collect themselves, when he watched them forget him and rebuild, was that kindness? He thought it might be; after all, he wanted his brothers to be happy, or as happy as they could be, under the Oath. If the thought of it left him with a strange, hollow ache, well, it wasn’t as if it were a particularly new feeling.
One of his more recent, recurring visions, was of a strange light in the sky. It reminded him of Telperion, and each time it haunted his vision, he felt the urge to cry, though he knew not if it was from sadness or relief or something else entirely. It was soon followed by a similar vision, but of Laurelin, and while he had once loved nothing more than basking in that golden treelight, this light seemed to intensify the scorching of the air around him.
However one vision stood out among the rest as the worst of them all, both cruel and kind: the vision of Findekáno. Sometimes he was furious, and after a long rant in which he denounced him and forswore their love, he would lift his bow and loose one of his arrows to pierce the already shattered remains of his heart. Other times, Findekáno would cry and beg for him to take back what he had done and return to him as he used to be, promising to take him back but only if he could return to being the nér he once was. He wasn’t sure which version brought him more comfort, though both brought him equal pain. It was the highest form of sacrilege, he knew, to imagine Findekáno, though he did not control his visions. He had not even said his name since his foolishly hopeful question at Losgar, and he had scarce thought it, if he could avoid it; he was not worthy of even that token of remembrance.
Today, as the strange images of not-quite-Laurelin began to appear in the distance, he found that his pain was not quite as bad as it was some days, and, for awhile at least, he had no other visions.
Not-Laurelin rose in the sky, but had not reached it’s full peak, when a sound reached him that made him wish he had the strength to dash himself upon the cliffs.
A song floated on the wind that kept his lungs from burning for the moment, a song in a voice so familiar it broke something in him though he had long been confident there was nothing left unbroken. Too weak to do more, he let his head drop forward and his eyes close against the memories. Only the day before, he had dreamt of Findekáno sobbing before him, and he did not know how he would handle seeing him again so soon. Normally, he had some respite between visions of the one he once had a right to call beloved, but evidently that was not to be the case on this day.
Far in the distance, at the base of the mountain, the all-too identifiable figure emerged. The light glinted off golden ribbons, and dry tears stung his eyes at the image. He had never seen Findekáno like this: he could not have imagined him so changed, so harsh, so... dusty. He could not have imagined Findekáno like this, and yet, Findekáno could not be here, so he must have. Perhaps he was dying at last, and this vision was here to guide him to whatever afterlife he may have earned.
If that were the case, it would only help to speed things up, he determined. Coughing out ash, he used his voice for something besides screaming for the first time in years. The song that wound its way up the currents of wind was an old one, one he recalled from their youth, and it took him only a few tries to remember the words well enough to join in. His voice was too cracked to sound good, but the beautiful figure must have heard him, for his head snapped upwards, eyes immediately finding him where he was bound to the mountainside.
The elf before him was changed from the one he remembered, but those eyes were exactly the same, a vibrant blue that glowed so beautifully against his dark skin. They widened at the sight of him, a horror filling them that made him wish he was free for the sole reason of pulling Findekáno into his arms and telling him it was alright, even if it wasn’t really Findekáno and it wasn’t really alright.
“Russandol!”
He started at the nickname, both so familiar from those lips and so unfamiliar; the Lieutenant had never bothered to discover it, so he had not heard it in longer than his fractured memory cared to span.
“What— what have they done to you? ” Findek á no spoke the same horror visible in his eyes, and he absently wondered why Findek á no was reacting so strongly. In his past visions, Findek á no couldn’t even see the Thangorodrim, but even if he had, surely he would not have cared, not after everything. Perhaps it was simply that he was hideous to look upon. It was one of his top theories as to why he had been hung out to—quite literally—dry on the mountain instead of continuing to serve as the Moringotto’s favored entertainment. The fiends seemed to favor beauty, and whatever he could be called these days, beautiful was certainly no longer an option.
“Are you—oh, Valar, you’re alive ,” Findekáno said rather nonsensically, “How long have you been up there?”
He had no idea, and he said as much. Findekáno shuddered, “Those bastards. I wish I could destroy them for you, but I think this is going to take all I’ve got.”
He didn’t know what “this” was, and he wasn’t prepared to ask.
And then Findekáno tried to scale the mountain.
“Don’t,” he begged, watching the hallucination slip down the side of the cliff for the fourth time, “Please don’t.”
Even if it wasn’t really Findekáno, he knew his mind was all too willing to imagine what would happen if a real elf tumbled too far onto the hard rocks below. Findekáno looked back up at him, looking ready to argue, and he cast about desperately for an argument. What was Findekáno even trying to do? Why would he need to reach him?
Oh.
It was so obvious.
To kill him.
He’d already had this vision a thousand times before, it was just a different beginning, this time.
“Just,” he croaked, coughing up something wet which could only have been his own blood, “Just shoot me.”
Findekáno froze.
“What?”
“Just shoot me,” he begged, “Please. Trying to climb to me is pointless, just use an arrow.”
“Russo,” Findekáno choked, “Why—I don’t—Do you—But you’ll die!”
“Of course,” he blinked, “That’s why you’re here.”
If he thought his usual visions had captured the way true fury sat on Findekáno’s face, he had clearly forgotten some things.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Russo?” he balked, “I’m here to rescue you, not kill you! ”
Well that just didn’t make any sense. He frowned.
“What’s the difference?”
“What’s the—oh, Russo,” Findekáno’s eyes were wide. He ran at the cliffs again, but when he barely made it twice his own height before sliding back down, he cursed and was still. Even across the great distance between them, he could see Findekáno’s hands shaking as he nocked an arrow. As he pulled the bowstring taut, he cried, “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”
He would have laughed at such a thing, if he could remember how. What pity would the Valar deign to spare on the likes of him? But then, Findekáno had always been both more pious and more worthy; maybe they would answer him.
And then he blinked rapidly, for though he had had many hallucinations, never before had his visions strayed so far from reality. A great eagle appeared out of the smoke and swept down to intervene before the arrow could be loosed. Then Findekáno leapt upon the bird’s back, and they both flew up to where he was chained.
Findekáno drew a blade and struck against the chains that bound him, but they did not break. He struck again and again, but it was to no avail.
“You have to let go,” he whispered as he felt the dampness of Findekáno’s tears on his cracked skin, “You have to let go of me.”
This felt so much more real than anything he had experienced in so long that he no longer knew what to make of it, save that if it were real, he would not get a better chance for release from life. There would be no other release, his chains would see to that.
“No,” Findekáno argued, stubborn as ever, “I will not get so close only to lose you again.”
“You must,” he pleaded, “I—whether it be to the Halls of Mandos or the Void, I care not any longer, but please let me go.”
Findekáno shook his head and raised his blade again, but this time when it fell, it did not glance off the metal of his chains. This time, it met flesh and bone, and severed both with dreadful efficiency.
At last free, unexpectedly free, he fell forward into Findekáno’s waiting arms, looked up to see the remains of his hand dangling above him, and promptly fainted.