"Farewell, My Love"

Note: Aegnor, son of Finarfin (and brother to Galadriel and Finrod) died in the Dagor Bragallach. He loved a mortal woman, Andreth, who returned his love, but Aegnor foresaw his coming doom and thus they never married.

Disclaimer: I own none of it, and the story idea and pairing is entirely Tolkien's. This ficlet was written at the request of MiniMoon.

Warnings: Battle scene violence, angst.

They were coming.

The roar of flame and scream of orc left him in no doubt. Terror and horror faced him. As they charged up the slope towards him, so huge and in such impossible numbers, he wavered, faltered, wondered for an instant if all would be lost and Morgoth triumph at last. Yet he stood firm as the first wave hit before strengthening his resolve and surging forward to meet them.

The din was so loud it went beyond anything he could have imagined. The screams of the dying, the triumphant bellowing of balrogs, the curses of dragons terrifying in their vileness. So this was battle for glory, for honour, for right. Morgoth had waited long and now they were feeling the full weight of his wrath and malice.

Many fell. Many good ellyn he had known and loved, who considered as brothers, were slaughtered before his eyes. Yet he did not flinch. He fought on, a rage burning bright within him, even though he knew what was coming, knew from the growing sense of dread in his heart that the moment he had foreseen grew ever nearer with every blow he dealt on his enemies.

Then it happened.

The blade sliced so deep and so suddenly that he could do nothing but gasp in surprise. He looked down, astonished, almost incomprehending at the weapon sticking into his gut.

He felt no pain. It was so very strange. He looked up and almost laughed in the flaming beast's face.

The Balrog's features twisted into a cruel grin. A vicious laugh fell from its mouth, a sound so filled with evil and darkness that it hurt the ellon more than his death blow to hear it.

With a wrench, the sword was sliced upwards, and the elf began to fall, sliding slowly off the blade, his blood splashing out onto the ground around him, falling so slowly that time was almost moving backwards as he saw it all flash before him.

So this was the moment he had sensed lay ahead of him. This was what had forced him to deny his heart's true wish.

He could have born the loss of her. He could have coped, somehow, with her death as inevitable as it would have been, mortal as she was. He might have faded, perhaps, but he would have healed with time, since time is the one thing elves have in plenty. It would have been near unbearable, but he would have done such a thing to himself willingly: to walk into a marriage knowing that his wife would be utterly lost to him one day. However, he could not, would not, have inflicted that on her. Better for her to have never known his caress, never have had false hope of their future happiness, than to wait in vain for his return once battle was done, to weep bitter tears long into the night, inconsolable with grief that their time together had been all too short and he was lost to her forever.

He loved her too much to put her through such pain. He would not have her hurt so terribly through his own selfishness.

They had talked long into the night. She had wept, quietly. She had accepted, as distressed as she was by his decision. She had not pleaded. She was too noble, too wise to do such a thing and she could see how determined he was.

He had kissed her, tenderly, just once on the forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment, willing his tears not to fall. He had not been able to bear to look at her, though he had heard the sob she had choked back. He had turned and left, his hand slowly pulling out of hers and she had let it go, though he had been able to feel her watching him even till he had ridden out of view.

That had been the last time he had seen her.

Darkness was closing in on him as he landed on the earth, his limbs sprawled, and a crimson stain seeping from him into the grass. There was a strange, quiet calmness that seemed at odds with the chaos around him. There was no pain at all only acceptance and peace and...


Her voice. Her voice in the quickening gloom.

"Aegnor, remember me."

"I will," he whispered, or tried to even though his lips would not move. He willed his thoughts to respond to her. "You have meant more to me than I could ever express, my sweet."

And suddenly she was there in front of him.

The battle was forgotten, raging unseen around him. There was only inky darkness and that beautiful face smiling at him from the gloom. Her eyes shone, her hair darker than sable, and it seemed to him she leaned over and kissed him on the lips, whispering sweet words to him that they had never had the chance to say.

He lifted his thoughts to her once more, willing himself to be heard.

"Farewell, my love."

Far away, a woman of the House of Beorn was suddenly distracted at her sewing. She gasped, the needle in her hand slipping and pricking her finger. The women sitting with her turned to her in bewilderment as in that same moment she cried out loud, leaping to her feet, her sewing falling from her knees. They rushed to her, catching her as she sank to the cold stone floor, weeping as if her heart would break.

On the field of the Dagor Bragollach, darkness had closed over him.

He was gone.