Eclipsed

[Wand 1220]

—ᴇᴄʟɪᴘsᴇᴅ—
 

The Pale Lord and Barrowlord brought Fëanor before a black mirror that encompassed a wall. The Templar let his gaze linger on the fires within, just enough time to receive a message from another Templar, Sigrun. He gave him last wishes - to bring word to his possible descendants - and then the connection was gone. The conversation with this Templar was short - he was bound, and drained from the Devouring enacted on him as he laid unconscious.
 

The Lord’s feast of emotions was Fëanor’s famine. There was no strength left as they called upon the Emissary. He could do naught but wait and speak. He knew others, allies of his, were looking for him - indignant, resolute, the Templar tried to buy them time. 
 

It felt like hours had passed, deep in the darkness with the mirror and his captors. That they had need of a hero was strange to him, from which he inferred a sacrifice would need to take place. There was hope he could be found, and so he stalled - needling them with questions, taking in the room. He had to remember everything he could.
 

The Emissary’s words were of a monarch’s - silvered and dangerous, and he knew their ilk well. It was not the first time Fëanor had spoken with a messenger from the Abyss. He learned their name, their kingdom, their allegiance and the nature of their Lord. All of it was so foreign to him, so strange - and what was this Stake they spoke of?
 

“For now - we will see how long such a reign lasts, whatever you and he have become now… but my soul belongs to light and fire. Not even I can undo the debt I owe them.”
 

Fëanor refused to bend, to submit, to kneel, and could only struggle and rebuke with his own tongue. 
 

Surely, any moment now-
 

“There will be time before the end. Time for decisions. For now be at ease.”
 

The awful thing, the profane Emissary gripped his throat, using both hands to heave him up. It was strong and he was not.
 

“There is neither shame nor indignity in submission - to the inevitable.”
 

“-I do not yield… To this. I won’t fall for sweet lies.” 
 

Smoke undulated, a baleful miasma that swept over the form of the Emissary. It hooked into his body like a set of fangs. A shrill whistle like steel quenching in water. He was choking Fëanor now, and yet its touch numbed him, balmed him.
 

So he fought in the binds. In his mind, he felt a warm rush. He panicked at the sensation - was it death? Why was he so afraid? It was warm, lifeforce - it bathed over him and he screamed, but nothing would answer. No one would hear him. He kicked and fought in futility.
 

Surely, any moment now-
 

Fëanor saw, felt that corridor, that connection to his fire. 
 

Then, it eclipsed.
 

The light melted away, that fire dimmed and went out, smothered by.. Warmth. It was lightless and strange, but it was warm.

The Pale Lord caught him as he was released, and it was done. He could not feel his fire - and then, it was as though his mind was stricken with sobering clarity. That pride and vanity, gone. When had he become so careless and proud? This was not who he should be. This was not who he ought be.

A black mark of a claw-like hand stained his throat, a mark of what was taken, what was smothered. 
 

Fëanor had heard of this before, during the days of Axios and Devirad, when Holy Magi were silenced and stripped of their light. It was possible- oh, it was possible, and dread followed this revelation, this omen that crept into him.
 

Someone, too late, tried to reach out to Fëanor, but his fire was gone, and he could not answer. There was no Templar to be found at this moment.
 

They were going to the Dreamer’s Marsh. The Emissary followed, sweeping into him, haunting him.
 

The array was next, the summoning site of the Stake. There they rode, carrying him bound on horseback, with the Emissary whispering, testing his will.
 

“Arbiter - Long have you toiled. Much have you spilt. Do you yet tire? Do you wane?”
 

The former title was vile on the whispered tongue, the thing that haunted his mind. Yet, Fëanor could not deny that he was tired. He had been tired for a long time, long before the Templar fire of Malchediael ever found him, and longer still before crowns and battles. He was tired for that was all he could do - give everything he had, for he knew deep down the heavens would never take him.
 

His crimes of his bloodline, the slaying of the first man, were his to bear. Every innocent dead for his pride, his sin. Blood stained his pristine ivory Lunarite armor as evidence, although it was his own blood. 
 

Kinslayer. That was what his bloodline was. That was who he was. If his soul was forfeit, he might as well live his life forever fighting, forever tiring, slaving away for the benefit of others.
 

“-Being tired is no excuse. I fought most of my life without that fire.”
 

Fëanor also knew temptation, and understood they would do their best to lie, deceive, and pull him to their side if they could, to drown him in darkness. He had to fight, struggle, scream, even without that fire, there had to be something-
 

Surely, any moment now-
 

“Throw down the Arbiter.”
 

“-Someone has to - someone out there-”
 

The Pale Lord hoisted him up.
 

“Don’t you dare. No. Someone!”
 

The swamp did not answer, and bore silent witness. Battered, weakened, stifled, fearful. They were talking about performing the ‘honors’ - to have him lie in the center.
 

“-Lest he accept? Submit? Or rage ever on?” calls the Emissary. Temptation again, an offer, a suggestion to give in.
 

Fëanor could not, but that hope was dimming.
 

“Providence to the victor,” spoke a Barrowlord.
 

“So mote it be,” spake a Pale Lord.
 

“-No. No!”
 

Fëanor was thrown into the middle, upon that array of the sacrifice. 
 

“Break his body so we may clear the impact site.”
 

The Pale Lord stepped forward. Up - then down went its arms, pummeling and breaking him down. Steel buckled. His screams echoed into the swamps. 
 

Surely, any moment now-
 

“-No one came?” Fëanor whispered, his voice hoarse and broken.
 

“They wish to find you, Brother. -They seek you out on all corners of Aevos, but we are hidden safe. The Dark will wrap around you and comfort you. We came, to save you.”
 

The Abyss came for him, of course.
 

That was true, no matter how much you could deny it.
 

Fëanor laid there, watching the sky on his back, his body broken, and more pain than ever in his life coursing through his body. He had no fire, no light, no hope on the horizon. Even his armor was covered so he could not be found by light of day or night - and then the rain came down, a final insult.
 

Faintly, the Emissary spoke of the crater, retreating, sprawling…
 

Darkness grew, as did storm clouds to the east. There was something on its way…
 

What followed was a cavalry, spirited by strange magic. Fëanor could make out voices and faint figures, clearing past the tree line. Silver lightning yonder, then black lightning above. The heavens churned, and shadows snapped high.
 

As the battle drew on, Fëanor could make out voices - and a small black speck. Something above him, growing closer - closer.. It was centered on him. He began screaming that his body was broken - everything, broken.
 

He had to move, but his body was broken. He thrashed, trying - Dragomir swept him up, breaking binds.
 

“Drag me if you have to-”
 

Down came the Stake of Mordring, and the realm trembled from the impact. Fëanor was thrown, Dragomir shielding him from the damage, his horse slain, and when Fëanor landed, still his bones were broken. The battle raged on, even more Descendants spilling from the treeline, and fear settled in - what if they were here to kill him? How many Xionists were awaiting his sacrifice? Faintly, he hoped his allies had arrived-
 

Surely, any moment now-
 

The voice again. The Emissary had vanished, but his voice remained. Its claws settled on his shoulders of his broken body, heavy. 
 

“Close..”
 

“L-leave me.” another rebuke. “You can’t have me…”
 

He wanted it to be true. They had all come this way for him, to save him, surely. They could not fail - there were dozens.. Twenty, thirty - no, more than that- calling his name. Looking for him. He could hear their horses, their footsteps, their screams and cries.
 

The Xionists were wrong, and that brought him comfort at least.
 

“A shadow is bound, it cannot leave. He is yours as you are his. In death, when all fades, He will still hear you.”
 

Terror again. What had been done to him?
 

“You can’t have me - something - the stars… The Aenguls already do-”
 

A sliver of doubt, and the Emissary whispered back, washing over him, as though one might console someone. “In time. In time..” and though Fëanor felt its hand leave his shoulder and draw away among the trees, he knew it was out there.
 

Allies found his side, their horses and their cavalry, their warm presence and their aid. He thought he heard Takemura screaming for Feanor the White- Someone healed his bones, mending him whole. Ember? He wept with relief. His ears thundered…
 

Fëanor only remembered exiting the swamp, but not with whom.
 

He awoke some time later, his eyes finding the sky. The mark was on his throat, and his fire was still gone.
 

Eclipsed.
 

Spoiler

Thanks to @Zarsies @Aden @Xergarokfor the lead in to that great scene with the Stake and the World Event!

I didn't get the chance to thank everyone who showed up to save Feanor, but what a rally, god damn. I won't tag everyone who's there, but a few names got special mention. I think that encounter had up to 40 or more players riding up.

 

Also, the art is mine if anyone wondered.

 

[Fishy 2710]

Tsukinomiya Honda, the Samurai whose horse had spirited Feanor away, pumped the sharpening wheel within his clan's hall. The blade he pressed against the coarse stone let loose a plumage of white sparks, honing its edge. Wrath consumed the Templar-Samurai's mind, focused against the foolishness of the elf adorned in white. For Feanor's failure the black stake loomed on the horizon of his country, a baleful obelisk spewing forth its evil against his homeland. The only glimmer of relief he had felt had been in seeing the bolt sprout from the deceased elf's head.