Post by breguilas on Dec 26, 2009 1:41:25 GMT -5
Breguilas took a slow breath and hefted her weapons in hand before assuming a stance that looked more appropriate for a dance than a sword exercise. Eyes closed, she conjured the images of her foes in her mind, and with the sort of grace only the Eldar could muster, entered into the Liltahathel, known in the tongue of Men as the "Dance of the Sword".
It was an old art, one not practiced in this Age by all save the eldest of the Elves, and its name was well deserved, for it was indeed as much a dance as it was a means of defense against an attacker. It required great concentration, for once it was entered, the Dance took on a life of its own, as if the performer were merely the vessel for some otherworldly power that guided them along.
It was a state of mind Breguilas relished, for often in the long years of her life had she need of the ability to put herself on a different level of mental awareness. The Dance was all about movement, abuot action, and there was precious little concious though that it required, which allowed her mind the chance to work out those things which gnawed on it like a hungering wolf.
For a span of time that now would seem uncountable, Breguilas had followed the thread of her destiny in Middle-Earth without question, or even a desire for change. It gave her the strength to press on in the face of odds impossible. It gave her the will to fight long after her limbs had grown sore and tired with effort. Most of all, it kept her busy, for Breguilas was once known as a trouble maker among her kind, strong of emotion and driven to -do-, so much so that her fellows often wondered if she would ever "grow up".
Yet as the hour of this fate approached, Breguilas was ill at ease. She could not help but believe that this Age was rapidly coming to its end, and with it, the time of the Elves would also come to a close. Should the errand of the comapny succeed, her duty would be fulfilled, for the last great work of Morgoth would be undone: Sauron, last of Morgoth's corrupt servants, would be unmade, and with him would go the last of Morgoth's influence upon Middle-Earth. This was fine and well, for Breguilas knew this to be for the best of all involved.
It was the last part of her fate that chafed her so. Few knew it; Glorfindel likely remembered, and Elrond may well have perceived it in their counsel's together. She had told Brendur, though precisely WHY escaped her even now. And she herself knew it, though it gnawed on her so.
She had been such a fool, then...
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The wind's of Gondolin's ramparts blew by swiftly outside, carrying upon it the sound Orcish battle-cries, mixed with the endless skittering noise of spiders beyond counting and the beating of powerful wings bearing aloft drakes and dragons from Angband. Breguilas knew that this was her end; her own swords were lost to her going on three days now, likely were still stuck in the hide of the Cave troll who had nearly killed her; she had taken from some of her now dead fellows a sword of far lesser power and the leg of a broken table as a makeshift club.
Her options were limited; eventually, the wolves or spiders would stumble upon her hiding up in one of the few towers that remained in Gondolin, and slay her in the dark. She could make a desperate flight for the back lines of her Enemy, hoping to escape unseen, though she knew it to be impossible under Morgoth's gaze. Or she could simply burn out in a blaze of glory, taking as many fell creatures with her as she could.
Smiling, Breguilas slowly unbuckled her now broken armor; it would do her no good for what she was going to do, a thing so reckless as to be nearly incomprehensible.
Taking a moment to ensure her sword was good and sharp, and her makeshift club would endure several great impacts before shattering, Breguilas turned her eyes to the single window in the small room she inhabited. She had barricaded it so as to prevent unwanted entry, but now, she was going out, and pried it off, letting the dim light stream in.
With a great cry, Breguilas dashed forward, and hurled herself in a majestic swan dive out the window, weapons gripped tightly in hand as she assessed her first target: a goblin, mounted atop a great spider, scaling the tower tall.
Spinning her body around, she kicked off the white limestone wall and hurled herself like a living arrow to her foe. The sword she held bit deep into the goblin as she spun to avoid his clumsy strike, the club lashing out to hammer hard upon several of the spiders legs, snapping them like twigs and sending mount and rider falling to their doom.
How long she fell, Breguilas could not say. It seemed like hours, though she knew the tower to not be nearly that tall. About half way down, the club's strength failed and left it a splintered mass; she got lucky and managed to take from a drake-mounted orc several weapons, including a crude spear and several swords, though in time these would also fail, and she took to pummeling her foes with whatever she could, including her hands.
Yet each foe took its toll; a nick here, a scratch there, and once, a drake managed to nearly crush her leg in its maw before she severed its head with a bulky orcish axe. By the time she alighted again upon solid ground, her perilous dive successful, she knew she was going to die from her collected wounds, though the deep pile of corpses gave her resolve some much needed strength.
Thus it was with some surprise that she was met by none other than an Elf upon shuffling forward, though it was an elf she was loathe to see.
"Maeglin! You bastard...how dare you defile our city with your presence...", Breguilas spat at him with a venom that might have made lesser beings terrified, but the traitorous elf only laughed.
"Breguilas...it is good to see the captain of the Bar-en-Damba's finest is still alive and well in Gondolin. My Lord Melkor commends your skill, and wishes..."
Breguilas cut him off, "I care not what Morgoth thinks of me, Maeglin, and I care not for what you came to say. I will not hear his honeyed words, for they are full of poison most vile. Instead, give him a message from me: Tell him this day that Breguilas, last of the Bar-en-Damba in Gondolin, vows never to rest until the last of his works is destroyed. I will dwell forever in Middle-Earth if I must, return from the halls of Mandos a thousand upon a thousand times if need be, but I will forever hunt his greatest followers, until the last of them is no more! And only then will I return to Valinor...only then..."
Breguilas sagged to one knee as she desperately tried to find the strength to finish speaking. Yet she could not, for her wounds were too great, and she could only watch as Maeglin drew forth his sword, approaching her.
"It is a pity, then, that I must end your life now, Breguilas. Such beauty and power the elves may never know again. Know this, though, that I am not without compassion for my family, and I will reveal to you where your destiny lies, for my Lord Melkor has gifted me with the wisdom to know the patterns of my life, and others."
"Know that you will journey through Ages long and dark, Breguilas. You will fulfill your oath, but it will be for naught, as the time of the Elves will be ending, and your kind will leave Middle-Earth. Know that, in time, you will come to love a man whom you will watch wither away and fade like the flowers of summer. And know that you will always be alone among our kind, for the fire that burns in your heart is too hot for them to stand. Now, my dear sister, go to Mandos and let my words burn you. Though I might be gone, I shall enjoy knowing this."
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Breguilas stumbled, and felt herself falling; without realization, she had made an error in the pattern of the Dance, and it hurled her into the dirt face first as a reward. With a sigh, she lifted herself up and brushed herself off.
Damn him. Damn him. Thousands of years and thousands of foes, and never had she forgotten those words. They echoed still in the empty places of her mind, toying with her. She believed them as much as she could believe anything Maeglin told anyone. He was a traitor, and a viciously cruel person, but she knew better than most that his gift for sight was greater than anyone she knew. With Morgoth's aid, she wasn't sure he couldn't simply will it to be so.
Never had she found respite among her kin; always was she an outsider among the elves. Never had she known the love of another, and if his words were true, even if she did, it would be as fleeting as a summer squall in the eyes of elves.
In a fit of rather un-elf like frustration, she threw her weapons aside, and lay back in the grass. She felt like weeping, and yet could find no tears to spare for herself, for she had cried the last of them long ago in places none had seen.
After long moments spent gazing into the sky, Breguilas stood, and gathered her weapons, resuming her stance carefully. If she could not cry, she would dance, and forget the world for a time.
It was an old art, one not practiced in this Age by all save the eldest of the Elves, and its name was well deserved, for it was indeed as much a dance as it was a means of defense against an attacker. It required great concentration, for once it was entered, the Dance took on a life of its own, as if the performer were merely the vessel for some otherworldly power that guided them along.
It was a state of mind Breguilas relished, for often in the long years of her life had she need of the ability to put herself on a different level of mental awareness. The Dance was all about movement, abuot action, and there was precious little concious though that it required, which allowed her mind the chance to work out those things which gnawed on it like a hungering wolf.
For a span of time that now would seem uncountable, Breguilas had followed the thread of her destiny in Middle-Earth without question, or even a desire for change. It gave her the strength to press on in the face of odds impossible. It gave her the will to fight long after her limbs had grown sore and tired with effort. Most of all, it kept her busy, for Breguilas was once known as a trouble maker among her kind, strong of emotion and driven to -do-, so much so that her fellows often wondered if she would ever "grow up".
Yet as the hour of this fate approached, Breguilas was ill at ease. She could not help but believe that this Age was rapidly coming to its end, and with it, the time of the Elves would also come to a close. Should the errand of the comapny succeed, her duty would be fulfilled, for the last great work of Morgoth would be undone: Sauron, last of Morgoth's corrupt servants, would be unmade, and with him would go the last of Morgoth's influence upon Middle-Earth. This was fine and well, for Breguilas knew this to be for the best of all involved.
It was the last part of her fate that chafed her so. Few knew it; Glorfindel likely remembered, and Elrond may well have perceived it in their counsel's together. She had told Brendur, though precisely WHY escaped her even now. And she herself knew it, though it gnawed on her so.
She had been such a fool, then...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The wind's of Gondolin's ramparts blew by swiftly outside, carrying upon it the sound Orcish battle-cries, mixed with the endless skittering noise of spiders beyond counting and the beating of powerful wings bearing aloft drakes and dragons from Angband. Breguilas knew that this was her end; her own swords were lost to her going on three days now, likely were still stuck in the hide of the Cave troll who had nearly killed her; she had taken from some of her now dead fellows a sword of far lesser power and the leg of a broken table as a makeshift club.
Her options were limited; eventually, the wolves or spiders would stumble upon her hiding up in one of the few towers that remained in Gondolin, and slay her in the dark. She could make a desperate flight for the back lines of her Enemy, hoping to escape unseen, though she knew it to be impossible under Morgoth's gaze. Or she could simply burn out in a blaze of glory, taking as many fell creatures with her as she could.
Smiling, Breguilas slowly unbuckled her now broken armor; it would do her no good for what she was going to do, a thing so reckless as to be nearly incomprehensible.
Taking a moment to ensure her sword was good and sharp, and her makeshift club would endure several great impacts before shattering, Breguilas turned her eyes to the single window in the small room she inhabited. She had barricaded it so as to prevent unwanted entry, but now, she was going out, and pried it off, letting the dim light stream in.
With a great cry, Breguilas dashed forward, and hurled herself in a majestic swan dive out the window, weapons gripped tightly in hand as she assessed her first target: a goblin, mounted atop a great spider, scaling the tower tall.
Spinning her body around, she kicked off the white limestone wall and hurled herself like a living arrow to her foe. The sword she held bit deep into the goblin as she spun to avoid his clumsy strike, the club lashing out to hammer hard upon several of the spiders legs, snapping them like twigs and sending mount and rider falling to their doom.
How long she fell, Breguilas could not say. It seemed like hours, though she knew the tower to not be nearly that tall. About half way down, the club's strength failed and left it a splintered mass; she got lucky and managed to take from a drake-mounted orc several weapons, including a crude spear and several swords, though in time these would also fail, and she took to pummeling her foes with whatever she could, including her hands.
Yet each foe took its toll; a nick here, a scratch there, and once, a drake managed to nearly crush her leg in its maw before she severed its head with a bulky orcish axe. By the time she alighted again upon solid ground, her perilous dive successful, she knew she was going to die from her collected wounds, though the deep pile of corpses gave her resolve some much needed strength.
Thus it was with some surprise that she was met by none other than an Elf upon shuffling forward, though it was an elf she was loathe to see.
"Maeglin! You bastard...how dare you defile our city with your presence...", Breguilas spat at him with a venom that might have made lesser beings terrified, but the traitorous elf only laughed.
"Breguilas...it is good to see the captain of the Bar-en-Damba's finest is still alive and well in Gondolin. My Lord Melkor commends your skill, and wishes..."
Breguilas cut him off, "I care not what Morgoth thinks of me, Maeglin, and I care not for what you came to say. I will not hear his honeyed words, for they are full of poison most vile. Instead, give him a message from me: Tell him this day that Breguilas, last of the Bar-en-Damba in Gondolin, vows never to rest until the last of his works is destroyed. I will dwell forever in Middle-Earth if I must, return from the halls of Mandos a thousand upon a thousand times if need be, but I will forever hunt his greatest followers, until the last of them is no more! And only then will I return to Valinor...only then..."
Breguilas sagged to one knee as she desperately tried to find the strength to finish speaking. Yet she could not, for her wounds were too great, and she could only watch as Maeglin drew forth his sword, approaching her.
"It is a pity, then, that I must end your life now, Breguilas. Such beauty and power the elves may never know again. Know this, though, that I am not without compassion for my family, and I will reveal to you where your destiny lies, for my Lord Melkor has gifted me with the wisdom to know the patterns of my life, and others."
"Know that you will journey through Ages long and dark, Breguilas. You will fulfill your oath, but it will be for naught, as the time of the Elves will be ending, and your kind will leave Middle-Earth. Know that, in time, you will come to love a man whom you will watch wither away and fade like the flowers of summer. And know that you will always be alone among our kind, for the fire that burns in your heart is too hot for them to stand. Now, my dear sister, go to Mandos and let my words burn you. Though I might be gone, I shall enjoy knowing this."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Breguilas stumbled, and felt herself falling; without realization, she had made an error in the pattern of the Dance, and it hurled her into the dirt face first as a reward. With a sigh, she lifted herself up and brushed herself off.
Damn him. Damn him. Thousands of years and thousands of foes, and never had she forgotten those words. They echoed still in the empty places of her mind, toying with her. She believed them as much as she could believe anything Maeglin told anyone. He was a traitor, and a viciously cruel person, but she knew better than most that his gift for sight was greater than anyone she knew. With Morgoth's aid, she wasn't sure he couldn't simply will it to be so.
Never had she found respite among her kin; always was she an outsider among the elves. Never had she known the love of another, and if his words were true, even if she did, it would be as fleeting as a summer squall in the eyes of elves.
In a fit of rather un-elf like frustration, she threw her weapons aside, and lay back in the grass. She felt like weeping, and yet could find no tears to spare for herself, for she had cried the last of them long ago in places none had seen.
After long moments spent gazing into the sky, Breguilas stood, and gathered her weapons, resuming her stance carefully. If she could not cry, she would dance, and forget the world for a time.