watered by the blood of martyrs (aeotha, leironuoth)
"Well," Pol said quietly.
"He isn't here," Ilúvatar answered.
Somewhere on the plains of Astarii the hands of the gods had done work that few mortal minds could properly frame. A flat stretch of grass, each blade of grass a solitary emerald, between two foothills that may as well have been mountains. These were the burial grounds of Caoimhin, the resting place for their ancestors dating back for longer than Ilúvatar had been alive. Wind sent by the dragon flowed down one hill and up the other, brushing the heads of those magnificent blades. Each one swayed in time with those around it, a rolling sea somehow on dry land for the occasion. There were no tombs here, no masoleum. They were surrendered to the earth which bore witness to their creation and their destruction, but anonymously. Only the marble tablet in the center of this otherwise empty field bore the name of Caoimhin. Their family pride encased in a single immovable stone, which stood unchanged since before Eibhear's birth. An incredible thing.
There was an apple tree, now that he thought of it, but Eibhear had once joked that it would not bear fruit again until it drank once more of Caoimhin blood. Developed quite a taste for it, he said. Sure enough the tree towered over the marble slab. Thick with leaves, but not a single red fruit in sight.
Eibhear was not as funny as he pretended to be.
Neither one of them had believed for a moment that Fenrir would come. Neither one of them had believed that he wouldn't come. Perhaps it was just old hope, faint hope, that if Fenrir came... they might see Eibhear again, if only for a moment. That hope seemed as foolish as a child's hope could be. And just as pointless. It wasn't in some grand god's scheme that Eibhear should be alive. So perhaps one day they would all return here, to this place, and eat a fruit of the Caoimhin's apple tree. Eibhear would have laughed at such a thought. He would have regretted not being there, to remark upon how delicious the apples were, now his blood would sustain them. More than likely he would claim ... Ilúvatar tried to smile and could not. Tried to laugh, and failed. There was nothing in him to laugh about. Every joke seemed sour on the heels of that one thought.
Today, my friend is buried forever.
There was a hastily-erected pavilion, not permanent but installed at King Melwasúl's insistence, so that he might speak for the dead today. He was there, watching several elves fuss over its production, arms folded into his robes. The greatsword that had been his weapon for all of his life was plunged into the earth, next to the marble slab what bore Caoimhin's name. Along with... his eyes grew wet at the sight of it. Every tribe sent at least one of their warriors, if not a prince among the trees. And when those Sylvan elves arrived they plunged their axes into the earth around that monument of stone, axe handles pointed toward the sky. King Melwasúl had not known of the ritual, so when he arrived, he carried no axe on his person. But his sword was strapped to his horse - and without a word he'd ordered the beast forward, retrieved that prized and holy blade, and thrust it into the ground.
Not one of the Sylvan elves had spoken. A great ululating cry rose up among them, a cry that Ilúvatar had joined gladly. The king listened, and nodded, and then went on with his work.
There they were. A legion of axes, the most personal weapon a Sylvan could own - all of them arranged around the stone of the High Elf Eibhear. He could see his cousin's axe, and another cousin's, and his uncle's, and the tribe with whom he'd warred so frequently in his youth. Only at the games, of course, but today... today there was a hold against such feuds, no matter how much some might want to revive them. Ilúvatar flung back the dark gray cape that shielded him from the brisk wind of the winter plains, and tested his hand once more. Still it ached from the fight in the desert. Such pain was not becoming a knight, nor a servant of the king, but with not an inch of his skin uncovered save his face and neck there was precious little for him to do but flex it. Looking at the wound was not enough in any case. To remind him, or to dull the pain of it.
It seemed wrong somehow that the day should be so full of sun.
Wrong, somehow, that children too young to understand should run and laugh.
Someday, they would know death as well as the rest of those did. For now he thought it was not wrong. It was a place to which there was no return, the past incarnate, dwindling away in his sight as a parent scolded those gleeful youngsters. Leave them, he thought to say. The words did not come. Let them remember playing beneath an old apple tree before their father dies in war. Let that be something fond, instead of something cruel.
"Aeotha will perform the service," Pol's voice again.
"I have not seen her in some time. It will be agreeable."
"She's as beautiful as ever," Pol confided with a faint smile.
There was nothing else to say. They both knew why they were here. Perhaps Pol wanted a fight, being contrary, or perhaps he simply wanted to think of a young lady's legs instead of Eibhear's death in the desert. Ilúvatar would not burden his friend with thoughts on the matter. If one group of elves would betray Ilúvatar, try to kill the last remaining Lord of the Knighted House Caoimhin - if they could, then what was it to betray Eibhear? He had not mentioned it either to his king, for fear that he would sound paranoid. For fear that he was paranoid. Elvish mercenaries who sold themselves to Perub interests. That was all. He kept repeating it to himself, but he did not believe, and he could not make himself no matter how he tried.
What's your name? Eibhear had asked him, the first time they met.
Ilúvatar Voronwé, he'd answered.
All of that? and the young elf had grinned. Someone up there hates you, don't they, Ilúvatar Voronwé?
What vicious gods they served, these priestesses of Lorien. To Bahamut the new dawn was pledged. Yet even midday seemed darker somehow, more blunt in its expanse, as if the sun served only as a reminder of what was no longer with them. A battle-general such as Ilúvatar, such as Eibhear, knew death. Danced with her often enough. Yet the toll that death could take, especially when one you thought of as invincible was snatched from you - a child might not feel it, but he could see it in the way the wind shook the branches of that miserable apple tree. The best you've ever tasted, Eibhear had promised, when they put me in the ground.
Ilúvatar doubted he would ever try one.
When they'd arrived from the desert, Etain had folded in on herself. Perhaps she had not believed that Eibhear was dead. That was the lie he told himself until he turned. There was Flaithriaoh, dented armor hanging by a strap over one shoulder. Face scuffed and bloodied. Ribs wrapped in bandages. His father's sword hanging from his back. Likely he had never gone to war before. Likely she had never entertained the thought that her husband and her son might both live by the sword, and die by the sword. Etain stood before the axes of her people with hands folded against her stomach, staring. At weapons.
He could have gone to her.
He did not.
"She isn't here," Ilúvatar finally said. "How do you know?"
"She's right behind you," Pol slapped him on the shoulder.