Plurk paste

His father's advisors are nervous to let him ride out, even with thirty of the best soldiers Hithlum has to offer behind him. But Fingon is the High Prince, and the highest authority with his father missing, and most of the Noldor still quaver when they sense a prince on the verge of losing his temper.

They take the fastest horses remaining, hoping to trace their king's steps. But Fingolfin the King had a two-day head start on the journey north, and the road to the mountain-fortress of the Enemy is shorter than most realize.

Fingon presses on anyway. It is more than his king who is missing; it is his father. He will not lose him without a fight.

The ride is long and hard, and Fingon does not dare break for rest; but as they come to the burnt-out borders of Hithlum they hear a distant scream that sounds like that of a horse.

"Follow that noise," he snaps, and his men turn in answer. Another fifteen minutes, and they spot the source- a pale grey covered in blood, lying on its side with it's legs splayed out at unnatural angles.

Fingon's heart plummets. He knows that horse. "Rochallor," he murmurs, the name of his father's favorite steed. The one he had been on when he rode out, the last time he was seen. "Come!"

It's a gallop to the horse's side, but already he knows that valiant Rochallor is dead. "Shh, my darling," he says, vaulting off his own Alasse to go to the steed's side, "all is well, we have you now... but please, tell me where your lord is-"

Rochallor screams again, full of pain and despair. His usually pale coat is rust-red, and Fingon can't- Fingon won't-

One of his men- Andunon, he notices distantly, one of Father's longest-serving bodyguards- kneels beside him. "You can't help him," he says, voice soft and sympathetic. "There's only one mercy you can give to him, <i>aranya.</i> Give him that now."

Fingon had known that already, deep in the marrow of his bones. He just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

"Rochallor, best of steeds, valiant companion to the most valiant of kings..." he sings, half to himself and half to the horse, "run West, dear one, to where the Sun and Moon rest-"

The knife in his hands is swift and sure. Part of him thinks the poor beast might be grateful at the end.

"Divert two of your fastest riders," he says absently to Andunon when Rochallor goes still, "This horse has served us well, and will be buried with all honor. We must find my father, of course, but-"

"Your father?" Andunon looks at him. "<i>Aranya,</i> we will not find him, not if he had been parted from Rochallor. Not alive."

Aranya. <i>My king</i>.

Suddenly, Fingon feels very cold.