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permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 · 13 days ago

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The Abhorred | Adar/OC (part 4)

Summary: It is a moment Maethoriel never imagined, but the empty raiment at her feet proves that it had, indeed, come to pass. Sauron is dead. She should feel relief, but all that she knows instead is a sense of fear over a world that will see not only herself, but her companions as monsters to be eradicated at any cost. It is a fear that will pull her away from the only one who ever kept her safe. And she is hardly blind to how holding on to that fear almost certainly risks keeping her forever adrift from the one that she loves.

Warnings: angst, some hints of Stockholm syndrome, references to torture, creepy Sauron being creepy, mind games and manipulation, removal of free will, murder, some blood and gore, it's gonna get pretty dark in here, folks. Warnings will be updated as the series goes on.

Taglist: @humongousgalaxycoffee, @emo--chanel

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Part One Part Two Part Three

The gray light of dawn filters down through the leaves overhead as they make their camp, and once he is certain his children are settling in successfully, Adar permits himself to venture further into the shelter provided by the trees in order to seek a few moments alone.

It is the first of such opportunities granted to him in what feels like an age, the nature of their travels since their enemy's death granting little time to do much but continue pushing on. Past exhaustion, and past their own misgivings, the disbelief many still hold that they can possibly be free seems determined to refuse to allow them even a moment's respite.

Adar knows that his children still hold fear in their hearts. Fear that Sauron will return, somehow, and that his retribution will be swift for their disloyalty. For their betrayal. In truth, a part of him knows this same fear, as well, though he clings to the hope that he need never face such a thing again.

Even witnessing Sauron's destruction with his own eyes, Adar still struggles to believe it. It is as though he is incapable of fully understanding or believing in their newfound freedom, after spending so many ages in torment. After being held captive under Sauron's will for so long that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to hope for another life.

Disbelief had been a part of what spurred him onward. It had been what pushed him to keep his children moving, despite ample evidence that all of them would benefit from a period of rest. But, confronted with that long sought after respite, now, Adar is beginning to realize that the constant movement of their travels had allowed him something else. Something he did not entirely expect.

It had allowed him the freedom from spending too much of his time thinking about her.

Maethoriel.

The woman he had left behind.

Something he cannot fully recognize twists inside of him at the thought of her. At the memory of how she'd looked at him, after it was done. After Sauron was nothing more than a pile of empty robes littering the floor. In her eyes, there had been grief. Uncertainty. Fear, and perhaps the faintest glimmers of hope, as well.

Regardless of whatever those glimmers had truly been, however, her absence at his side now provides ample proof that whatever it was, it had hardly been enough to keep her with him in the aftermath of it all. Whatever her seeming loyalties had been, before, something had changed. That something had wormed its way inside of her mind, to keep them apart.

It had taken every bit of strength Adar possessed to resist the urge to simply return for her in those first days after their flight from Dúrnost . To find her, and do what he could to persuade her that an uncertain future together was still far better than an eternity spent alone, but he had sworn that he would not force her allegiance. That he would not bind her to him as Sauron had, from the moment Adar had first brought her north.

Not for the first time, did he wonder if both of them would have been better off if they never had a chance to meet. If he'd never followed Sauron's orders, and laid waste to her former life. Her family. Her friends.

Would forfeiting the connection that had festered between them have made it easier to free his children from Sauron's control sooner? If Maethoriel had not provided him with the first glimpses of something other than a bitter sort of loneliness, all those years ago, would he have been capable of plotting Sauron's demise without fear of causing her pain?

As much as it troubles him to admit, Adar finds that the answer is a thing he simply does not know.

He'd been no stranger to how quickly Sauron had taken to keeping Maethoriel practically tethered to his side. To how he had seized upon the terror and grief she'd worn about her like a shield in the wake of her abduction, and twisted it to suit his own purpose.

Adar knew far better than most how alluring their master could be. How capable he was of feigning kindness, or even concern, when it would win others to his side.

Unable to do anything other than observe as Sauron slowly drew Maethoriel in, just as he had so many others, Adar had not expected to pity her. He had not expected to view her with anything save for the same indifference with which he had grown to view the others who proved themselves too feeble-minded to resist the darkness and its incessant call.

Something about her had prevented him from doing the same for her, however. From casting all thought of her aside, leaving her to make her own way so that he might direct his own attention to what mattered most. Securing the freedom of his children.

Maethoriel was a liability, or so he had tried to convince himself. If she had allowed herself to become Sauron's so easily, then perhaps there had never been a chance for her, at all.

Despite his best efforts, however, the more time he spent with Maethoriel, the harder it had been to dismiss her. To his surprise, her position at their master's side had not entirely succeeded in persuading her of Sauron's virtues. Through the many tasks they had been set to, together, Adar had learned that Maethoriel harbored her own doubts about their master, as well. That his treatment of her had started to sour, and that while she might remain at Sauron's side, she still felt the acidic sting of fear in his presence. It is a sensation that Adar himself knew all too well.

Somewhere in the amalgamation of horrors the two of them had been forced both to enact and to endure at Sauron's whim, a bond had formed between them. Tenuous, at first, though it soon became near to unbreakable, or so Adar had believed at the time.

And somehow, in the seconds it had taken him to drive the blade into Sauron's heart, that bond had slipped through his fingers as though it were made of nothing more than grains of sand.

Adar feels the loss as keenly as he had felt the loss of each one of his children who had perished already at Sauron's hand. Though Sauron had not killed them all with his own blade, or whatever dark magic he held in his employ, they had died for his cause. For his ends.

In much the same way, Adar views Maethoriel's absence in the same light. As ridiculous as it may seem, it is all but impossible to view it as anything other than proof that Sauron had taken her from him every bit as much as he had done with countless scores of Adar's children.

Now that he has allowed her to enter his mind once more, he finds that he is utterly powerless to avoid considering exactly what she may be facing, now, on her own. He wonders what dangers she may find, and what, if anything, she might do to escape them.

Knowing she was capable in a fight, after having overseen much of her training himself does little to assuage the worry of how she will fare alone.

Not even when he knows better than most that such a distraction will only endanger the ones he seeks to protect, now.

He cannot afford it. Allowing Maethoriel to take control of his thoughts in any capacity will serve no purpose to any of them, now, no matter how it pains him to consider forgetting her altogether.

Already, Adar knows that he has spent far too much time staring, unseeing, at the landscape that surrounds him. He knows that, in the time he'd spent consumed by his innermost thoughts, any number of threats could have found him and attempted putting an end to him before he had the chance to act.

It is enough to bring him back to the present abruptly, and Adar allows himself a moment to adjust to the reality of it. He allows himself a moment to grieve the thought of leaving Maethoriel behind, both in the sense of not returning to search for her, as well as doing what he could to keep her from his thoughts, as well.

Whether he could bring himself to understand it or not, she had made her choice. He could not begrudge her that, no matter how much he might wish to. And as he hears the distant rustling of movement through the foliage at his back, the footfalls falling in the familiar pattern of one of his children, Adar knows.

Given that Maethoriel has clearly made her choice, the time has now come for him to make his own.

Maethoriel had been sleeping for the better part of three days.

The weariness that had been her near to constant companion far before the moment she'd fled Dúrnost kept her nearly motionless upon the thin bit of bedding she'd been laid out upon. But for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, her would-be rescuers might have believed her to be dead.

Still, they tend to her as best they can, using damp cloths to wipe away the sweat that lingers upon her brow. Dripping some of the water from that cloth to her lips, parched and chapped though they may be.

Already worried she will never wake again by the dawn of the second day, the man and his wife share yet another glance as their son sidles up to the woman's unconscious form on the eve of the third. They watch as he dutifully wipes at her brow, and spares her a few more drops of water from the cloth not long after.

Not one of them knows what they ought to do. Though they are hardly willing to abandon her, the reality of their inability to improve her condition thus far remains apparent. And as attached as their son already seems to be to the woman, the prospect of her looming death is certainly a reality that they do not wish to face.

"Why won't she wake, Papa?"

"I do not know, son," The man replies, his words subdued. Almost hesitant, as though to speak them aloud were to commit some grave sin for which he might never be capable of repenting, "We do not know what she might have endured before we found her."

"You mean her scars?"

Nodding, the man extends a hand to ruffle his son's hair, the worried frown that mars the boy's otherwise youthful features pulling at his heart in a way that few other things ever could. He shares yet another glance with the boy's mother, noting her in her expression that familiar mix of affection and concern that he knew far too well.

Neither of them would ever dream to discourage their boy's tender heart, or seek to dull his ever-present need to look after others less fortunate than themselves. But it would be a lie for either of them to pretend that it was not a trait that could oftentimes land their son in a fair bit of trouble.

It is the prospect of that trouble coming about as a result of the strange woman's presence in their home that worries them, now.

A prospect that seems to be rather quickly coming to fruition, given that the woman is finally beginning to stir.

"She's awake!"

"Get back, son," The man cautions, a hand coming to rest upon his son's shoulder, while the other extends to pull his wife behind the shelter of his sturdier frame, as well. Carefully, he watches as the woman shifts weakly, her features seeming to pale even further as though even such miniscule movements were capable of causing great pain.

Dark eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones for a moment, before she is able to open her eyes completely. An event that is rather quickly followed by a trembling hand darting to where her weapons had once been belted at her waist.

"There is no need for weaponry here," The man assures, the effort of keeping his words steady even in spite of the sudden wave of apprehension that steals over him something that he did not entirely expect, "My family is no threat to you."

"Where—where are they?"

"They are safe. If you choose to depart, I will take you to them, but—"

"You will take me to them, now."

The words are spoken softly, though the man would not be so foolish as to pretend he cannot sense the determination that rests beneath them. It is a determination that soon has the woman standing in seconds, her frame wavering as she blinks past what is clearly a spell of dizziness brought about by so long spent unmoving. Unfed. Unconscious.

Her limbs clearly seem to falter. To betray her desire to remain upright in a show of strength that she clearly cannot afford. And although the man hardly knows what she will do when presented with the reality of his approach, he cannot fight against the instinct that has him stepping forward to reach for her, his grip upon her shoulders gentle as he guides her to sit upon the bedding she'd been resting on mere moments before.

"You won't make it three steps before you're out cold again, I'd wager. Perhaps it's best if you rest a bit before there's any more talk of leavin'."

He can sense the woman's reluctance, of course. It radiates through the space between them, made all the more apparent by how she almost immediately wrenches herself free of the meager contact of his hands with her frame as though she'd just been burned.

Her eyes seem to go dark, then. Darker than they were, already, and yet clouded by something that the man cannot entirely recognize. Again, he moves to reach toward her, desiring to put her at ease in whatever way he can, but the abject horror that overtakes her features in response holds him back.

"Get—get away from me."

Straightening to his full height, the man takes a few steps back to give the woman some space, sharing yet another look with his wife, who stands almost motionless, her hands gripping their son's shoulders to keep him at her side. He tries to manage what he hopes will be a reassuring smile for their benefit, but if the skeptical expression his wife wears is any sort of indication, the gesture rather clearly falls flat.

A glance back at the woman shows her still seated, her gaze riveted straight ahead without truly seeing. For all the world, it appears as though she is lost somewhere in her own mind, whatever holds her there clearly stronger than her own obvious desire to remain alert.

It troubles him, truth be told. Try though he might to continue giving her the benefit of withholding any judgment until learning her story—learning what had driven her to the point in which he and his son had found her—something about her presence pulls at his resolve to do precisely that.

The longer he spends watching her—noting the tension held in every trembling muscle, and the vacant glaze to her eyes—the more certain he becomes of a fact that is far more troubling than he cares to admit.

Whoever she is, and wherever she'd come from, the woman is clearly running from something. From something, or someone.

Whether the thing that haunts her will come after the man and his family in turn, is a thing that is yet to be seen.

"Without Sauron, you and I? We are nothing."

The words echo in the far recesses of Maethoriel's mind, ebbing and flowing in a way that effectively drowns all thought of perceiving anything else. Though she is still at least partially aware of her own surroundings, the familiarity of the voice garners almost all of her focus.

It is a voice she would know anywhere. A voice that still calls to her, whether or not she knows she would be far wiser to cast all memory of it aside for good.

For a moment, however, Maethoriel is tempted to cling to it, regardless. To find some way of holding its memory close to her heart, even in the face of what may come about as a result. In the back of her mind, she is still aware of the observation of her companions. A man, a woman, and a young boy whose presence tugs at her heart in a way she cannot fully explain.

Perhaps it is that small, lingering awareness, that enables the voice she so yearns to hear to fill her mind with altogether new words. Words that bear a warning that resonates through her very bones.

"Never let down your guard, Maethoriel. To do so now would be akin to openly inviting your own death."

The words are enough to pull her out of her own distraction. Out of the fog in which she had been seemingly imprisoned, almost without her conscious awareness. Warily, her attention shifts from the man who had been addressing her, to the woman and boy standing behind him. Her gaze locks upon the boy, and once again she is struck with that nagging sense of something she cannot yet place.

Of the three of them, that boy seems to be the most unhindered by apprehension. In comparison to his older companions, he does not seem to possess any sort of wariness over her presence at all.

She would be a fool to pretend she is completely reassured by such a discovery, but Maethoriel finds that the uneasiness that has plagued her since awakening begins to fade, bit by bit, replaced by the sense that, if these people meant to do her any harm, the child would not seem so calm. She allows herself to take a deeper breath for what feels like the first time in an age, and is surprised by how quickly whatever tension had been holding her upright seems to slip away in an instant.

Caught, for the moment, between her desire to heed the warning words still lingering in her mind, and the need to take stock of her surroundings in order to better formulate a plan for how to move forward, Maethoriel remains precisely where the man whose touch she'd shied from had left her. Perched upon the edge of what appeared to be a thin mattress, covered with an equally thin blanket, that sits beside a well-worn table and chairs.

It is the first time she has paid any attention to something outside of the haunted whisperings inside of her mind. To something that did not pertain to the three mortals still bunched together nearby.

It seems enough to render her capable of addressing them—truly addressing them—for the first time since she'd arrived.

"How—how long has it been since—"

"Since we found you?" The man supplies, seemingly reassured by Maethoriel's return to full awareness of her surroundings, if the slight shift to the previously taut line of his shoulders is any sort of indication at all, "Nearly three days."

"Three days," Maethoriel repeats, her stomach sinking at the thought of exactly how dire her condition must have been to lose so much time at once, "You should have left me where I was."

"Begging your pardon, but my boy wouldn't have allowed it."

"Even so, you took—"

"A risk, lettin' a stranger into my home?" The man interrupts, a faint twitch of something that might be an attempt at a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, "Figured, given your state at the time, you weren't all that much of a threat. No offense intended."

"It is not me that would threaten you."

As soon as the words escape, Maethoriel regrets them. She chastises herself for the harshness behind them, and her heart twists inside of her chest as soon as she observes how any lessening of the man's former uneasiness seems to come to a startling halt not long after.

Whether truly comfortable with the idea or not, Maethoriel is not so foolish as to believe she does not owe these people for their kindness. No matter what crimes she might have committed in her life, she is not so far gone as to know nothing of gratitude, and when it is due.

A sigh escapes as she shifts on the thin bedding beneath her, her gaze once again drifting to the young boy who stands behind his father, eyes wide. Almost hopeful, as though he truly wishes for a way to bridge the apparent gap that rests between them.

It is a realization that nearly proves to be her undoing, as she considers what forming any attachments in this new portion of her life might mean. The faint stirrings of fear seeps into her veins at the thought of what any who might be hunting for her could do, if they learned of the aid this family had provided her.

It is a fear that all but refuses to give her any respite, even when she does what she can to remind herself that any who would have been hunting for her are now gone.

Or so she hopes.

"Forgive me, I—it is not my intention to alarm you. I—I would simply hate to repay what you have done by placing any of you in danger."

"What kind of danger?" The man asks, the apprehension that rests behind the glance that passes between him, and the woman standing behind him something that Maethoriel would have been capable of sensing, even if she were blind, "What are you running from?"

"Nothing that will touch you. Not after I am gone."

The finality that rests behind the words troubles her. It gnaws a hole in the pit of her stomach, made all the more potent when she takes note of the boy finally wriggling free of his mother's grasp, and skirting around his father's outstretched arm to stand at her side.

Yet again, she is struck with the sense of something she cannot identify. A sensation that is not all that far from something poking at a long-forgotten memory, trying to break it loose. And as the boy reaches for and seizes her hand, without even a hint of the fear or caution that she might expect, Maethoriel finds that the well of emotion that comes about in response renders her scarcely able to speak.

"She can't leave, Papa! Tell her that she can't leave."

"She can, son. If she truly wishes to, none of us are in any position to stop her," The man disagrees, placing a hand upon his son's shoulder to deliver what is clearly meant to be an encouraging squeeze, though Maethoriel can tell in an instant that the boy is hardly pleased, "Though she'll not get very far without some food, drink, and more rest."

"It is hardly wise to remain here any longer," Maethoriel protests, once again attempting to stand under her own power, and doing her best to hide the reality of how quickly her balance nearly falters.

It is an occurrence that finally seems capable of breaking the other woman out of her reserved silence, her own wariness fading, at least for the moment, as she steps forward loop a steadying arm around Maethoriel's waist.

"I believe you are about to discover that my husband is anything but what one might call a wise man. Come. I will draw you a bath, and then we can see about some supper."

"You don't—I do not wish to be any trouble—"

"Then I suppose you would be best suited by staying," The woman persists, a small, albeit reluctant smile forming in response to the expression Maethoriel adopts in response to the words. An expression that cannot possibly demonstrate anything less than utter and complete surprise.

"If nothing else, a few more days spent recovering would do wonders to assure us that you were strong enough to wander around out there on your own."

Maethoriel is still hardly certain that staying is prudent. She still cannot entirely shake the feeling of being hunted, despite knowing that the true threat that might have chosen to act against her is gone, never to return.

The stab of guilt that lifts its head and begins coiling its way around her heart nearly drives her to her knees, but somehow she forces herself to remain standing. She forces herself to push aside that guilt as best she can, knowing that, whatever her regrets might be over pulling away, rather than following Adar as she always had before, there is little to nothing she can do to remedy any of them, now.

Though she has no intention of taking advantage of the hospitality that this family seems so determined to continue providing, Maethoriel is perfectly capable of recognizing that, in her current state, she would find herself in dire straits yet again far more quickly than she truly cares to admit. And although that realization might prevent her from leaving at the present moment, it does little to discourage her from making future plans.

As soon as she can stand on her own two feet without faltering, she will be gone.

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permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 · 7 months ago

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The Abhorred | Adar/OC (part 1)

Warnings: angst, some hints of Stockholm syndrome, references to torture, it's gonna get pretty dark in here, folks. Warnings will be updated as the series goes on.

Tag-list: please let me know if you would like to be tagged for future updates! dividers by @zaldritzosrose

A/N: Whelp...I've gone and done it. And I am freaking terrified that I will somehow mess this up! The vision in my head is something I am so, so very excited about, but imposter syndrome is a thing, and I'm not 100% confident I can pull it off. I suppose only time will tell?

Either way, though, this one is for all of my fellow Adar-girlies! He deserves all of the attention and love he can get, and I really hope that the demented little plot gremlins running amok in my mind have created something that at least some of you will enjoy!

It was not supposed to end like this.

That is the only thought the woman seems capable of as she stares down at the place where he once was. Where the one who had caused her so much pain had rested, dead. Gone. No more. Some small part of her knows that she should feel relief. That she should be pleased at his demise.

Now, though, all that she can seem to understand is the bone deep feeling of regret.

"I am your only future!"

The words ring inside her mind like the clamor of bells, a warning against any thought of breaking free. Of even attempting to seek another path that did not align with his plans. His plans, that only ever brought dissent and terror and pain. Still, she stares at the emptiness of the fabrics at her feet, shallow breaths rattling inside of her chest as her mind recalls that those fabrics once held his form. Sauron's form.

She cannot move. Cannot tear her eyes from the ground. She can barely even breathe, and the walls seem to close in from all sides. Silence surrounds her as all those that had been in the hall from the start take in what has just transpired, though they can hardly believe it to be true. It isn't until she feels the presence of another, moving to stand beside her, that she begins to return to herself, but when a hand rests upon her shoulders, everything within her is suddenly possessed by a desire to wrench herself away.

"Maethoriel—"

"What have you done?"

Muted though it may be, the inquiry lands like a blow upon the person standing beside her. Someone she once trusted, but the one who had now blown apart every last bit of the world she once knew. Her eyes search his face, desperate. Pleading for some sign that this was not, in fact, his plan all along, but she finds nothing. Nothing to indicate her wild hope is warranted. Nothing, save for the vindication of one who has, at long last, achieved a goal.

"What have you done?"

"I have done what was necessary to secure our freedom."

"Freedom," The woman scoffs, another step creating still more distance between herself and the one who stands beside her, something not all that far from pity more than apparent within his gaze, "What you have done is cast us out into the world to live in exile."

"We will survive, Maethoriel."

"As beings who are to be turned away by everyone we meet? As those who would be hunted for crimes that are unforgivable?"

"The true mind behind those crimes is dead."

"And we are the poorer for it!"

Bile rises to the back of the woman's throat as soon as the words are spoken, because even though a part of her believes them, there is another, private part of her mind that wishes with everything she has that she did not. She would be a fool to deny that acting in league with Sauron had brought them nothing but misery. That he had been a terror, holding everything he touched in thrall with an iron fist.

Still, after everything, there had been a sense of—if not belonging, then at least one of temporary respite. They had a home, even if it were not the most desirable.

Hardly able to stand those thoughts as they rise to the forefront of her mind, Maethoriel attempts to rebel against them. She tries with all her might to understand that what her companion has just done was exactly what was needed all along.

Silent, he watches her carefully. An expression that she cannot decipher appears in familiar features, and cuts through her, down to her very bones. Mere moments ago, the two of them had been standing, united, or so she had believed at the time, and now?

Now, it is as though a chasm exists between them. One it seems nothing can bridge.

It was not supposed to end like this.

"I am your only future! And my path, your only path."

The man standing before her had all but destroyed that future with a single blow.

Confusion flares within her as Maethoriel continues to stand rooted to the spot, chest heaving with the effort of continuing to breathe. With the effort of forcing herself to recall every moment of torment—every scar earned—the longer she had remained at Sauron's side. She reminds herself of each day spent hunting. Spent killing. Nights, consumed with another sort of conflict best left unspoken.

Every last one of them in the hall with her had suffered the same, and the prospect of freedom from such pain seemed far too alluring to be real. It was too alluring to be real, given the reality of facing judgment from those who had once flocked to their side.

Men, and elves, and dwarves alike would look upon them with nothing shy of hatred. She knows this as surely as anything else she has seen in her lifetime. But in spite of it, she also knows that she should feel relief that Sauron is gone. She should feel relief that the one who would see them all enslaved will never be able to harm any one of them ever again.

The regret she feels over her inability to genuinely give in to such a thing is nearly enough to bring her to her knees.

"...my path, your only path."

All of the deception—the betrayal at Sauron's hands—and even still, Maethoriel cannot seem to rid herself of the notion that this coup had been folly. That it would serve to do all of them far more harm than good. She cannot help but feel the flames of a dull sort of anger towards the one still standing beside her, and that more than anything else feels like the serrated edge of a knife slicing against her heart.

"What—what am I to do?"

Her voice cracks over the words, and the sting of unshed tears burns at her eyes, forcing Maethoriel to avert her gaze, rather than continuing to look the man beside her in the eye any longer. The idea of facing the betrayal he likely feels over her outburst is simply too much for her to bear.

Already, her heart yearns for forgiveness, though she begins to suspect that is a thing that will not come easily. Not when this apparent victory had been so hard-won. And even when she feels the warmth of fingertips not encased in a gauntlet's cold grip come to rest beneath her chin, turning her face upward once more, Maethoriel hardly dares to breathe.

"I will not force your allegiance, Maethoriel. Not as he did."

The fingers beneath her chin move, for a moment, so that the warm callouses of a familiar palm come to rest against her cheek in their stead, and Maethoriel wants to lean into that touch. She wants to savor that small bit of gentleness, and keep it close, forever.

Before she can make any move at doing so, however, the sensation is gone. Pulled from her at such speed she can hardly reconcile herself with its loss. Again, she averts her gaze, this time to avoid looking directly at the sight of her companion turning to depart. A low chant begins to echo around the hall while she struggles to choose. Stay with the empty raiment resting at her feet, or follow after one who, in spite of recent acts, she has come to love beyond reason.

Her thoughts are an amalgamation of pain, and regret, and confusion, but even then, she does not miss the words spoken to her, and clearly intended to be said in parting, spoken so lowly that even she nearly struggles to hear.

"I cannot choose your path for you. You must do that for yourself."

"I am your only future!"

A sob works its way up Maethoriel's throat whether she wishes it to or not, the sound drowned out amongst the tramp of feet as those who had waited in the rapidly emptying hall move to depart. A singular glance shows her that her companion is now entirely gone from her sight, his tall frame swallowed completely by the throng of those he called his children.

Slowly, she turns to depart as well, though her path leads in the opposite direction from the rest. She steels herself against the pain that winds its way like a vice around her heart.

Knowing that at least one of them would not be alone serves as meager reassurance when compared to the cost of her own choices. The cost of her own inability to free herself from Sauon's hold, even now. Now that he is gone.

The strange sense of grief that she feels over his passing only adds fuel to the fire that is now lending speed to her movements as she makes her way through darkened hallways. As she begins to consider the reality of an eternity spent in the shadows. And even if she knows not where she should go, or how she will spend that eternity now that it is staring her in the face, Maethoriel does know one simple thing.

Of the two of them, she is abundantly grateful that it will be her, and not Adar, that must endure it alone.

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