Obdurate

"Let me pass!" Olwë snarled at the guard who blocked the door.

"No, my king." The ellon would not be moved.

They are killing my people; stealing our ships!" Olwë, furious, betrayed and desperate, cast a glance out of the window that overlooked the harbour. Far too clearly he could see the bodies that lay strewn on the encarmined stone quays as a new wave of Noldorin warriors swept in like the toxic red tide that brought death to the bejeweled shores without warning.

The warrior remained as obdurate as the Pelori. "My duty is to see you safe, my king. And if you go down to the harbour, I will not be able to protect you from the followers of the rebellious sons of Finwë. They kill even their own people in their madness!"

Olwë shoved the younger elf out of the way only to find three more before him. Undeterred, he threw himself at them, struggling against the hands that that restrained him, even going so far as to snatch a dagger from one of their belts.

"My sons are out there!" His desolate wail echoed the fear in his heart. He wrenched free of their hands, wild-eyed and blinded by anguish and terror. The guardsmen danced back out of range as he swept the weapon before him.

"Olwë, stop!" Lirillë's voice cut through the torment in his mind, and he turned to look where she sat, the tapestry work forgotten on her lap, her face grief-stricken.

He looked from his wife to the knife in his fist, and dropped to his knees, horror-struck at what he might have done. The pearl-handled blade trembled, gleaming in the lamplight, then tumbled to the floor.

Olwe wept, impotent to stop the Kinslaying.

(written Nov. 17, 2008)