[Durelin]

Axe in hand, shield on his arm, Tareth repeatedly swung, anything but his enemy seeming part of another world. Blood coated him, some his own, most that of others. A red haze covered his eyes, so he could barely see what was around him. Even so, he was completely aware of his surroundings, so much so that he caught an enemy coming up behind him with a slash across the stomach. As he slashed, all thoughts and feelings of the world were not a part of him as they should be in life. He felt one feeling, one that scared him, though his fear rested outside himself, outside his mind. A voice screamed at him, but his mind blocked it out. It was wrong. He felt…pleasure. He was enjoying this, the killing. He couldn't stop himself when he began to laugh, a laugh full of real mirth. The red haze enveloped him, the voice screaming at him became a whisper, and his mind came to an end.

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Tareth sat on the ground, idly wiping his axe on the grass to no avail. The growth was soaked with red as much as his axe was. He stared down at the bloody body before him with a bright smile on his face, a feeling of sickly warmth filling him. It was Baroden, dead, and by Aerin's sword. O how beautiful a sight! It is the loveliest feeling! He's dead, and I saw it! O, what greater thing than the bloody death of him! A single tear ran down his cheek. The feeling of wet on his cheek brought his head up, his thoughts back with a snap. Why was he crying? He looked down again at the body, and the tear ran off his cheek, the single drop splashing onto the dead man before him. He was crying in joy. In joy at a man being dead.

Tareth's mind raced back to the night he had first killed a man. How he had thought of himself, how he would kill a man…but for certain reasons. And how he would not let himself change, lose a part of him as Rangar had. How he had changed. Now he killed a man…and joy filled his heart till it seemed to burst. It had felt good to kill a man.

His mind raced to the battle just before. Back to when the red haze had covered him. He had laughed with bright mirth while slitting open a man's stomach.

He had smiled at a man before he plunged his axe into the man's skull.

He had found warmth in the sight of the bloody gash in Baroden.

He had cried in joy sitting before Baroden's mangled corpse.

Tareth rose quickly and turned away from the corpse, falling to his knees a short distance away. Holding his head in his hands he wept.

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The company made their way back to Gondor, and soon they would be going on their seperate ways. Tareth was lost in his thoughts. He wished he did not remember it all so clearly, but it burned brightly in his mind. The shame burned hotter. He avoided his companions, which was not hard. They had seen him, after all, they had to have. Seen his shame. Now he would return to Bree and become a blacksmith. It was all he had ever wanted, all he would ever want. He would use iron only in service.

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Tareth arrived back in Bree to smile for the first time in days. Tying his gelding, Tareth dismounted and pulled his bags off to carry over his shoulders. He walked into his father's forge to the familiar heat, smells, and sounds. It felt so good to be back in the peace of this place. He put down the saddle bags and took up his shield and axe. Smiling at his father, Tareth spoke. "With your permission, da, I'm going to melt these down. My horse needs new shoes."

His father simply smiled at him for a moment before replying. "You don't need my permission, son. This is yours now, though I will still help ya a bit."

"I know you will, and till the day you can't lift the hammer anymore."

"Mayhap that will come quicker than you think. The time came real soon when you couldn't lift that axe no more."

"Axe or sword, it is ten times heavier than any hammer in my hands."

[ June 25, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]