[*]
The
black sword spoke, as he knew it would.
His pride brought him here, just as it had killed everyone who had loved
him and succored him. Every home he had
known, he had destroyed for his pride.
He could blame the curse that was laid upon his family by the Great
Enemy. He knew that, even now, the
others were doing so. Yet here in this
last moment, as he molded the earth around the sword’s hilt so that it would
firmly hold the blade in place, he knew that his pride was curse enough.
How
many innocent men and women had he killed, generous friends who had taken him
in and cared for him, rescued him even from the ruin that he brought, only to
be ruined thereby? Two of them he had
killed with this very sword, one unknowingly but the other in purposeful
rage. But he knew himself well enough to
know that he could have lived with the guilt of even that last murder. War filled him up, made him great. He was a war leader of great power and
presence, eventually turning people away from their own chiefs and into his
soldiers. He had done this very thing so
many times, but always to the death of those same followers. He had no doubt that he would have continued
on in this fashion, if not for the truth which had caused the last murder.
He looked
down at his hand, where the dragon’s venom had fallen and burned him. It had been bandaged, lovingly, the last
loving gesture by his wife. When he had
killed the dragon, he had fallen unconscious from his malice, and she had come
upon him and healed him as best she could.
But then the dragon, in his dying, used the truth to cause his wife to
kill herself by leaping from a great cliff.
Already all things died on the cliff side. He had briefly considered joining her in her
fall, but no.
For
here was the murderous truth: that the dragon had, in years past, caused his
wife to forget herself, and in the forgetting find herself in his company. They fell in love, a great love which calmed
his martial spirit, and she eventually were married. She carried their first child in her, and he
looked forward to that birth most of all.
But the dragon’s death brought with it the end of his works, and its
culmination: for his wife was his sister, and the horror of it caused her to
kill herself.
Now he
shall do the same. And he did.
The
sword shattered at he fell upon it, and he was buried with its shards.
And
Harry Potter knew himself in Turin, son of Hurin, called Turambar, Master of
Doom, who was himself mastered. The
darkness claimed him one last time.
The
black sword spoke, as he knew it would.
His pride brought him here, just as it had killed everyone who had loved
him and succored him. Every home he had
known, he had destroyed for his pride.
He could blame the curse that was laid upon his family by the Great
Enemy. He knew that, even now, the
others were doing so. Yet here in this
last moment, as he molded the earth around the sword’s hilt so that it would
firmly hold the blade in place, he knew that his pride was curse enough.
How
many innocent men and women had he killed, generous friends who had taken him
in and cared for him, rescued him even from the ruin that he brought, only to
be ruined thereby? Two of them he had
killed with this very sword, one unknowingly but the other in purposeful
rage. But he knew himself well enough to
know that he could have lived with the guilt of even that last murder. War filled him up, made him great. He was a war leader of great power and
presence, eventually turning people away from their own chiefs and into his
soldiers. He had done this very thing so
many times, but always to the death of those same followers. He had no doubt that he would have continued
on in this fashion, if not for the truth which had caused the last murder.
He looked
down at his hand, where the dragon’s venom had fallen and burned him. It had been bandaged, lovingly, the last
loving gesture by his wife. When he had
killed the dragon, he had fallen unconscious from his malice, and she had come
upon him and healed him as best she could.
But then the dragon, in his dying, used the truth to cause his wife to
kill herself by leaping from a great cliff.
Already all things died on the cliff side. He had briefly considered joining her in her
fall, but no.
For
here was the murderous truth: that the dragon had, in years past, caused his
wife to forget herself, and in the forgetting find herself in his company. They fell in love, a great love which calmed
his martial spirit, and she eventually were married. She carried their first child in her, and he
looked forward to that birth most of all.
But the dragon’s death brought with it the end of his works, and its
culmination: for his wife was his sister, and the horror of it caused her to
kill herself.
Now he
shall do the same. And he did.
The
sword shattered at he fell upon it, and he was buried with its shards.
And
Harry Potter knew himself in Turin, son of Hurin, called Turambar, Master of
Doom, who was himself mastered. The
darkness claimed him one last time.