Work Text:
There is blood on my hands.
Crouched by the shore, I dip my fingers in the raw, unwelcoming sea, watching crimson wade and mingle with the foamy water. Slowly I turn my head, to where Father shouts orders and others scramble to obey.
The ships are ours. Not far ahead, to my right, a silver Teler lies. In the darkness and flame his eyes are glass.
“Maitimo!”
A voice I think I know, but cannot place.
“Nelyo!” it comes again.
I turn and see my little brother. Makalaurë the minstrel, with dark splatters on his bright breastplate; he looks afraid. “Come, now, we’ve no time to spare!”
I look down, sunken to my knees in the cold sands.
There is blood on my hands.