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adepslanaeFiclet inspired by Колыбельная in the Songs and Dances of Death by Mussorgsky and Golenishchev-Kutuzov (a more accurate translation than the one in the video is here).
Rating: Teen
Words: 420
Content warnings: Alternate Universe, warning for death of a child.
Summary: Curufin takes the pain of parents who see their children suffer to heart.
“Could you not calm the child?”, she had asked him soon after he arrived. A traveller caught in the snowstorm, she had had to let him in. He was well-dressed - a sheepskin coat decorated with red and golden embroidery - and well-mannered. He had seemed so kind when he pulled his hood off, revealing fine features and the darkest hair she had ever seen.
She should have suspected that there was something odd about him right then. His dress was too prim, his face untouched by the wind and cold, and no human being would have been out in that blizzard. But the baby’s weeping picked up again, rivalling the wind keening outside, and she was exhausted, and anguished by her unending wake. She would have run to the doctor if the weather hadn’t been so blustery. Trapped inside her home, alone, she could do nothing but hear her baby cry, know her baby was in pain without being able to help her.
“Could you not calm the child?”
She had asked, letting herself fall on an armchair, more out of despair than with any real hope that he - an unexpected guest - could do something for her little one.
He had fixed sharp grey eyes on her. She unconsciously averted her gaze from them and it fell on a tiny eight-pointed star glinting on his coat, lingering on it for a moment, before he moved, calmly walking over to the baby’s crib. He took one long, careful look at the little sick one writhing in the throes of her illness. He picked her up, gently so gently, and started rocking her and singing to her.
It was such a sweet song, a lullaby. She didn’t understand the language, but it didn’t matter. Perhaps he too was a father, perhaps he had soothed his own suffering child.
She had dozed off to that song.
When she awoke, much later, the storm outside had ceased, and the sun shone into a silent home.
He stood where he had in the evening, still holding her baby to his chest. She leapt towards her, hopeful, but then he lowered his arms. The baby’s face was still, too still for her to be just peacefully asleep, her tiny cheeks drained of all the colour of life.
She didn’t hear his words over her scream. Only later, when her husband could finally come back home and found her stooped over their daughter’s corpse they became clear to her.
“See, your child isn’t suffering anymore.”
Rating: Teen
Words: 420
Content warnings: Alternate Universe, warning for death of a child.
Summary: Curufin takes the pain of parents who see their children suffer to heart.
“Could you not calm the child?”, she had asked him soon after he arrived. A traveller caught in the snowstorm, she had had to let him in. He was well-dressed - a sheepskin coat decorated with red and golden embroidery - and well-mannered. He had seemed so kind when he pulled his hood off, revealing fine features and the darkest hair she had ever seen.
She should have suspected that there was something odd about him right then. His dress was too prim, his face untouched by the wind and cold, and no human being would have been out in that blizzard. But the baby’s weeping picked up again, rivalling the wind keening outside, and she was exhausted, and anguished by her unending wake. She would have run to the doctor if the weather hadn’t been so blustery. Trapped inside her home, alone, she could do nothing but hear her baby cry, know her baby was in pain without being able to help her.
“Could you not calm the child?”
She had asked, letting herself fall on an armchair, more out of despair than with any real hope that he - an unexpected guest - could do something for her little one.
He had fixed sharp grey eyes on her. She unconsciously averted her gaze from them and it fell on a tiny eight-pointed star glinting on his coat, lingering on it for a moment, before he moved, calmly walking over to the baby’s crib. He took one long, careful look at the little sick one writhing in the throes of her illness. He picked her up, gently so gently, and started rocking her and singing to her.
It was such a sweet song, a lullaby. She didn’t understand the language, but it didn’t matter. Perhaps he too was a father, perhaps he had soothed his own suffering child.
She had dozed off to that song.
When she awoke, much later, the storm outside had ceased, and the sun shone into a silent home.
He stood where he had in the evening, still holding her baby to his chest. She leapt towards her, hopeful, but then he lowered his arms. The baby’s face was still, too still for her to be just peacefully asleep, her tiny cheeks drained of all the colour of life.
She didn’t hear his words over her scream. Only later, when her husband could finally come back home and found her stooped over their daughter’s corpse they became clear to her.
“See, your child isn’t suffering anymore.”