Mornacu did not believe that, though he had been told that it was true, not even after fighting orcs through the darkness and the caves on the long journey westward. Orcs had bodies not too dissimilar to elves, but so did the dwarves and men and other strange creatures. Before the sun rose, back when everything was dark under the stars, they did not know that the orcs were weak to light or that their allegiance was to Morgoth or the rumors of their creation- that the corpse-pale monsters were elves remade. There had been no orcs in the homeland of Cuiviénen, despite the thefts of people before the Hunter chased them away and the cruelty of the king after the Divide.
Mornacu had not been born when the Divide happened, when the heretic Finwë took half of their people and left for the dangerous world outside of the homeland, never to return. Mornacu wondered if he would have joined the deserters then, leaving with the heretics and the First Tribe. His father chose to stay and bound him to this fate, and his mother had died giving birth to him. Life was different, the old ones said, before the Divide, before the Hunter came, back when the First Tribe lived on the shore. After the three heretic leaders left, only two tribes remained, each led by their old kings. The great lake of the homeland shrank and food became scarce, after the Divide, even though there were less people to feed. Raids plagued the people that remained, the pirates worst of all, desperate for food and wealth and workers to create that. That life was harsher and the waters receding Mornacu did know, even if his father was not the one to admit this fact, and that Tata and Enel became more grasping and hard, less willing to debate, more jealous of their rule. Tata grew cruel, as cruel as any orc, and imprisoned those that defied him lest that they become another Finwë. Before the Divide there was no tall earthen walls, no citadel, no deep pits to hold prisoners. No fields where Mornacu had toiled as a young boy, growing food for another’s plate. Reddacáno, commander of the field, had lorded over him. Black hair in many braids swinging like the many braided cords of his whip - sometimes Mornacu saw the prince of these lands of Hithlum and could not stop himself from flinching, because the face that he saw was the tyrant of his childhood. He hid his fear from Lady Meril, because he did not wish to accidentally insult the kind and noble lady that protected them.
Mornacu did not remember many details of his childhood, besides the hunger, the small dulled trowel in his hands, the irrigation ditches that never had enough water. The rules and the watchers, the king eager to dole out torture and punishment to dissenters. His father dying for the failure of choosing to protect his fellow fieldhands during a raid instead of the grain needed to survive. He remembered his stony determination to not end up with the same fate as his father. The cold shadows of the city walls. The taste of water laced with bits of barley and calling it a stew. Few memories worth saving. Until Morwë, round face and black hair and dark eyes that were always either crying or smiling. Long lashes like a girl. Older by a few months and shorter and stocker than him, because while Morwë was the least of his kin, his family was large and worked among Tata’s overseers and guards, able to afford good food. A boy near his own age, always running late and tripping over his feet, the only relative of Reddacáno that knew how to smile, the one that defied the rules. Morwë who wanted everyone to have enough to eat, wanted music and dance to return, who did not fear the forests beyond the city or the rival Nelyar people. To remake the world into a better place. Morwë, punching him in the face because he would not help to rescue one of the field girls falsely accused of theft, Morwë shaking with fear but demanding the release of prisoners, alone until the taller boy dove in to join the other boy, Morwë shaking with gratitude as he was saved. The sting of a whip across an eye, ruining it forever, but Morwë avenging him, a knife bright with red blood. The two boys standing back to back, fighting as one. Morwë and the girl bandaging his ruined eye and calling him a hero. Morwë covering her escape, Morwë returning the favor of his sacrificed eye and taking the next blows meant for both of them. Capture, and Morwë again shouldering the punishment. Crying Morwë, smiling Morwë, Morwë’s small hand against the other boy’s cheek, against the scar across the ruined eye and broken lip, demanding that he live for both of them. To see the world that Morwë would no longer be able to, for the red hot irons removed that chance before the boy was finally killed, blinded and bisected.
Morwë, his best friend, dying because Tata King would not allow anyone to defy him, even a silly boy with a heart too wide for the darkened world. Who in death became the second Finwë to divide their people and inspire more to flee Cuiviénen. One-eyed Mornacu had not led them, the cousins of Morwë, not really. Morwë had led them, his example, his memory. Mornacu could only emulate the dead boy’s ideals, giving him the loyalty that Morwë deserved but had not received until too late. Like a daily prayer, that promise. Morwë’s kin trusted him, followed him through the mountains and the caves, and fought beside him against the orcs. Renamed him Mornacu, Hound of Morwë, and meant only honor in it. Fighting and fleeing, and hoping that Morwë’s dream of peace was true somewhere. They had not thought the orcs were elves, not kin. They had not trusted the other elves, the Nelyar who had left with the heretic leader Elwë. When the arrogant Noldor came from across the sea, those had been instantly recognized as kin - yet the Fire-Spirit and his followers had not so readily accepted that claim. Tata’s face, cruel and paranoid and jealous of any loss of power, had reflected back from this face of the son of Finwë. That had shattered Mornacu’s hope. But Morwë’s example gave Mornacu courage to try again with Lady Meril. They would have a better life in Beleriand, far from the horrors of their homeland.
Orcs were elves once, poisoned and twisted into cruel monsters by Morgoth - but Morgoth was not necessary for elves to become cruel, Mornacu knew. A cruel elf looked like an elf, not an orc.
The morning of the Fifth Battle, and a tall orc captain in an iron mask stalked forward, a flaming whip in his hand. Behind him roared the balrogs, Gothmog among them, and the orc captain laughed and removed his helmet. Long black hair and pale skin heavily scarred down one side, but a face that was still recognizable despite the age that it had never reached in life. A boy’s round face became a man, corpse-pale and dry-eyed. Long, beautiful lashes. A familiar smile. A deep voice, calling out to a one-eyed elf that stood sword in hand amongst the warriors of Hithlum, answering the horrified question. “I was reborn. And it does not matter, for you shall soon die. And the Dark King shall remake the world.”
prguitarman
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
