Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2022-08-03
Updated:
2022-08-03
Words:
1,687
Chapters:
5/?
Comments:
38
Kudos:
52
Bookmarks:
9
Hits:
580

The Void

Summary:

Eärendil is tasked with sailing the Void, but he is not alone in those vast reaches.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Eight gaunt and wraithlike figures loomed out of the darkness, floating towards the ship – and the gleaming light at its prow. The guardian drew his sword. “Stay back! Thou hath lost thy right to it!”

 

“The light,” the tallest and thinnest moaned, reaching a handless arm for the brilliant gem. “The light…”

 

“We miss the light,” the lookalikes agreed mournfully, huddling closer together and staring greedily at the jewel.

 

“The light,” the others murmured, shifting and swirling with each other – all but two, one who wept silent tears of inky blackness and one with eyes like burning flames.

 

The guardian brandished his sword at the specters; it caught the gleam and scattered it like stars. “Get thee back!” he repeated fiercely. “Thou hast all lost thy chance at the light! To Darkness Everlasting thou art cursed! Touch not the light, its vessel, or its guardian!”

 

“Please,” the weeper whispered, and the word was taken up by all the rest. “Please, please,” “Please,” “Please…”

 

“Nay!” the guardian cried. “Get thee gone!”

 

Sobbing and wailing, the phantoms retreated once more in the eternal blackness, and the ship sailed on.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

He heard them before he saw them, this time. The whispers writhed across his ship, and he drew his sword once more. "Where art thou? I hear thee! Show thyselves!"

"So... cold..."

"Please... let us get warm..."

"Let us be flesh, just for a minute..."

"Please..."

"Show thyselves," he commanded again, stern and unmoved. Eight figures materialized from the darkness, floating into the glow of the gem. Four were weeping, the lookalikes and two others; the one with eyes like flame remained as stubbornly silent as ever.

"Thou art facing the penalty of thine Oath," the guardian said firmly. "Immutable thou made it, and immutable it remains. It is not within my power to relieve you of it."

 

Wails of despair and grief and pain greeted his words, but he did not relent. They had made their own vile choices, they had chosen their own manner of suffering. It was not his to change it.

 

“Get thee gone,” he said severely, “and obstruct my path no more.”

 

Whimpering and weeping, the eight of them dissolved back into the Void.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Menace surrounded him, surrounded the ship, a miasma of malice so thick it was nearly tangible. He tasted it between his teeth, the heavy cloying hatred, blanketing his deck. But for all its potency, it could not touch him, could not hurt him, did not dim the light, and he sailed on, unafraid. 

 

Morgoth glared at him, chained and gagged and helpless to do more than stare with all the hatred of his mighty will. The Elf did not deign to look at him, staying his course, and as the ship drew further away, the atmosphere of malice lessened, and faded, and dissipated away. 

 

And then it was just him and the ship and the light, alone in the Void.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The first sign of them this night was weeping, a half-heard word repeated over and over. The guardian drew his sword and peered into the impenetrable blackness, waiting. Sobs and pleading, different in tone from the usual, sifted about the ship.  

 

The flame-eyed one materialized, blocking the way. The guardian sighed. "Get thee gone, and cease thy efforts at obstructing Gil-Estel." 

 

The spectre neither answered nor moved, fiercely staring him down. The guardian noted the sudden silence and peered about - and there, a huddle of shades bearing another one, thinner and weaker than the rest, almost vanished, with a gaping dark wound seeping blackness right in his very core. 

 

They bore him into the faint light-scatter of the Silmaril beneath the prow, whispering to him. "Do thou absorb the light." "Thou wilt be well, do not thou give up!" "Look, the light, do thou see the light?" 

 

The guardian stepped forward, brandishing the sword. "Thou are not permitted to touch the Silmaril!" he cried, voice great and terrible. "Get thee gone!" 

 

And for the first time, the flame-eyed one spoke. "We doth not seek to touch it, nor wrest it from thee. We seek only to see the light, as it is permitted for every other creature of Arda to do. To come nigh the light was not forbidden us." 

 

The guardian looked down at the huddle of phantoms below his prow. As they absorbed the holy light, some definition returned to their wraithlike forms - he could pick out blurred features now, the ghosts of colors. It was one of the lookalikes who was wounded, and he lay cradled in the arms of his twin and the scarred one who was missing a hand.  

 

"Thou art arresting a messenger of the Valar," he said slowly. "Thou hast no power to do this. Now in the name of Varda Elentári whose star this is, get thee gone!" 

 

The six lifted their injured companion, moving slowly away into the darkness. Not until they were safely away did the fire-eyed one retreat, flaming gaze pinned on the bright ship and its captain until he was out of sight. 

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

He was not surprised at the hisses, just on the edge of hearing. Only Fëanor himself was capable of speech above a whisper; his seven sons were only just barely audible.  

"Show thyselves," he commanded wearily.  

For the first time, the Fëanorians did not immediately obey. Instead, there was a quick skitter, and a scratch, such as that made by chitinous legs. The hisses grew louder momentarily, but did not coalesce into words, before fading away altogether.  

Unease slithered down the guardian's spine. Never before had the phantoms failed to show themselves at his command, or absorb as much light as they could during their brief opportunities. And never before had they skittered.  

He wondered what, precisely, had wounded the one twin, the last time he had seen them.  

He drew his sword, its familiar weight in his hand a comfort, and peered into the darkness beyond the ship. He could almost hear movement, could almost see something lurking beyond the glow of the gem, but not quite. His flesh erupted in goosebumps, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.   "If you want it, come and claim it!" he cried boldly into the Void.  

He was answered by chittering, like insectoid laughter, and then it came. Long and sinuous and jointed, with far, far too many legs and eyes and pincers dripping with venom above cruel fangs, it circled Vingilot once and twice and thrice as the guardian wondered in mounting terror just how long it was.  

Having surrounded the ship with its body, the monstrosity lifted the frontmost part of its length and hovered over the prow. Eärendil brandished his sword in challenge, Silmaril-light gleaming along its blade, and tried to ignore how puny he felt in comparison to the Void-creature. 

It struck, its head moving faster than lightning, those perilous mandibles diving straight for his head. His sword clacked against them as he fended it off. It retreated to sway out of reach once more, before striking again, as fast as before.  

He swung his sword, aiming for one of those abyss-like eyes. He was rewarded with a high shriek of pain and rage from the creature, and a shoulder wrenched nearly out of joint as its head jerked back up, almost taking his sword with it.  

He did not see it as it struck for a third time. He had enraged it, and it was done toying with and testing him. He raised his sword in desperate determination and prayed that Námo could reach into the Void to claim his fëa. 

The expected pain did not come. Instead, his sword was met with an impact strong enough to shake him down to the soles of his boots, planted in a defensive stance. He had caught one of the murderous mandibles, and strained now to keep it from touching his body.  

Beside his sword, bright as a star in the Silmaril-light, another blade glowed faintly, thin and wispy but every bit as strong as any other Elf-steel. The hilt of it was clenched tight in a left hand, and when Eärendil looked over, its gaunt tall owner nodded once, grave and respectful.  

From all around them, ferocious war cries sounded, no less the fierce for being barely audible. Seven ghostly figures materialized, wielding weapons and savagely attacking the Void-monster.  

Eärendil was unnerved; he had never seen them so animated, so alive. Celegorm would be the one with silver hair like a pennant, a short sword in each hand, and a feral grin of battle-joy. The twins were attacking together, their strikes complementing each other's. Fëanor was visible as a blazing figure of wrath, hacking at the creature that dared attack the vessel of his beloved Jewel. 

The others, Eärendil could not see, but he could hear them - their shouts and grunts and calls and the crystalline notes of Maglor's singing. There was no power out here, save that which they brought with them, but the second Fëanorion sang of family and togetherness, of courage bolstered and adversaries overcome.  

Shrieking and hissing and leaking darkness from innumerable wounds, the creature scuttled back to the Void, Curufin stabbing it once more for good measure before leaping lightly down from its carapace as it fled. Beside Eärendil, Maedhros shuddered and gasped - flesh enough, now, in the atmosphere of the ship, to do so - his sword of sheer willpower dissipating away. Their opponent gone, the Fëanorion's features twisted in pain before he moved for the edge of the ship and launched himself over the side. His brothers surrounded him, hiding him from view, as Fëanor approached, still holding a sword that dripped a substance that made Eärendil's head hurt when he tried too hard to see it. 

The fire of his fëa had been banked once more, so that only his eyes burned again. There was nothing warm about the gaze that Fëanor turned on the mariner, however. "Do thou take better care of my jewel and thy own hide, nephew," he said scathingly, then turned and followed his sons into formless darkness once more.