*comes to the conclusion that if he's going to be prepared for anything (...), he'd better remember everything* *or at least enough about how to do things properly, because let's face it—his technique sucks*

*leaves the city and begins to lose himself in concentration, his body fading a little with each step*

*struggles arduously with the deepest locked recesses of his mind until he sees a glimmer of the memory he's been looking for*

I hear my name, despite the din. Perhaps because I do not need to breathe. Perhaps because my sword's song is my own.

In a moment they are here, or I have rejoined them. The King's fiercest warriors drag him, one upon each arm, and throw him at my feet. Tulukhastâz nods to me. His hair is streaked with blood and gleams eerily in the starlight, and something about his smile tells me we've fought here forever. I look then to the herald and for a moment his Lord's eyes stare back at me, grim and weary (and mournful?) but steadily piercing. I nearly expect to see the sun.

The Dark One raises his face slowly from the grass. He was a man like me. The thought is curious, wrong. It reads like a sigh. Inexplicably, there are flowers, as though this world has not been irreparably riven one moment from now. I wonder that the earth itself does not recoil from his touch.

I do not speak as I draw back my sword. I relish the anticlimax.

All this in a sword's thrust:

"Fool. Discord is written in the fabric of time."

"But you yourself are not, though you have forgotten it."

"With me ends the world."

"This world is dying." But on some other plane, Arda roils with human contradiction. Teems. I hesitate.

(All this in a sword's thrust.)

"How do you slay the most powerful being in the universe? You, who are yourself born of Discord?" His laughter is wild with fear.

The words echo in my mind. You, who are yourself born of Discord. If dawn has not come, I do not know it. Truth is sometimes clearest in a dream. "But we do not speak of the One. It is because of Discord that I can slay you. And through it I will."

"Then you know what most do not. Standing is but an illusion. The Ainu's power is ever-changing. Might exists for those who would seize it. At any cost." Bitter frustration seeps in: His. An image of priceless treasure (jewels, always jewels), just out of reach. "My brother and I did not create sound. We only sang."

"I do not desire power such as yours."

"Nevertheless, you must wield it. And you, alas, are not even such a visionary as he." Jubilation now. "As a mere memory I will consume you." I reach for the strength to finish him and flounder in his cowardice. All that remains to him is triumph.

"Discord also breeds valor. I will forget your nature." I am defiant. (Can a coward be so?) "You will vanish with the world that bled you of your Eru-given gifts. I will forget you."

"Then remember to forget, Turambar. And later, when you forget not to remember, Discord—spectacular Discord—will await you. Share it wisely, for you are too young to comprehend it. Others are not."

I can bear it no longer. My being is suffused with malevolent gifts I cannot hope to overcome. And suddenly I burn with rage, understanding crashing down, and I see what indescribable joy is to be found in greed and lies and tyranny and might.

I strike. The sword enters my chest and I look up at this shape framed in stars and darkness, this boy, young and strong...and broken.

"I am the Master of Fate," I whisper,

(he whispers)

and forget, and all is won, and lost. Light bursts: Dawn.

There are flowers.



*awakens seemingly for the first time, stunned*

Spectacular.

Current Mood: indescribable
Tags: thingol, turin