Send a word for your muse to find my muse in a certain state - Leaving: Find my muse dying.
The criesand screams were still surrounding him, along with the stench of death andblood, but he couldn’t see anything. Each time he tried to open his eyes, allhe could get was an image blurred by a thick veil of both blood and pain. He justlied there, stretched on the ground which was still vibrating with the sound ofstomping feet and agonizing souls. One sound was missing though. That of thesteel against steel. Where were the swords? Was it all over yet?
Soon, the Otoo familiar smell of burning wood reached him, and he clung to this detailjust like he had clung to the sounds, in order to not think about the pain which was paralyzing him, as a desperate attempt to discard the very existenceof this anguish. To discard what was inevitably coming.
He couldfeel it. Death. Crawling towards him like a gloomy, viscous mist. And helaughed. Quietly at first, his eyes still closed and his lips parting justenough to let the rough and cold hiccupsescape.
So that was how he would finally die; not as a hero. Not as a martyr. Not even as a victoriouswarlord. He would die a desperate partisan of an ideal which he had nevermanaged to design. Disgraced by his failures.
O father.How you must despise me now.
And as hisshame increased, his laughter became more and more audible. Bitter andironic. Just like his fate.
The lastsurviving hope relied on his brothers. May they retrieve the jewel and burnthose caves. The rest did not matter, because the rest would die with him, orwas already dead to him.
He didn’twant to think about his son whom he hoped was far from this place, far from hiscurse. And far from the toxic cloud of his authority. However, despite his efforts, hecould not get rid of the memories engraved in his senses, in his heart. His son’spatient voice, his youthful and yet determined face, his faithful eyes not yetdeserted by hope. His voice again. He could still hear it and for a littlemoment, it seemed that the memory of it would cast the pain away.
Curufinwë wasdying on a pile of regrets, and he knew this voice would just increase theburden which his fëa had to carry. But so sweet a weight could not be ignored,could it?
Just a mirage,triggered off by his maddened senses and the devils of agony. So that was howit felt to die with regrets? Pathetic delusions of a crazed mind.
And yet it soundedso real… this voice, no matter what it said, seemed to invade his very heartand to give it the strength to beat a few more minutes with the last drops ofboth hope and sorrow. Perhaps.. if he opened his eyes… one last time. Just tomake sure it was nothing more than a desperate chimera.
Hislaughter had stopped, and Curufinwë eventually realised that it had been replaced byone single word, which he kept on repeating in a hoarse whisper.
