Aldanwë

I enter the room together with Elrond and Elros and remain there, close to the door, fervently hoping that they will not ask me to go away. I dare not leave. I know what will be said. But I do not know, I cannot know what the twins might do after learning the truth. They have daggers at their belts, and… What if… I cut short my thoughts, disgusted and terrified by them. They would never… But my mind swiftly silences my heart. Once, I thought the same about Fëanor. Once, I thought the same about his sons. Therefore, I withdraw in the shadows and stay. I dare not leave.

“You wished to see us?” asks Elros cheerfully, with that easy smile on his handsome, open face. “Have we forgotten something again, like on that last hunt? We took great care to remember everything, just as you said!”

I do not know what he is speaking about, but Elrond clearly does, for he also flashes a smile. But then he looks closely at Maedhros and Maglor, and his smile fades.

“This is not about the hunting trip. Is something amiss, uncle Maedhros?” he quietly asks.

“What is wrong?” Elros’ smile disappears too. He frowns and looks at his uncles in turn. “Evil news?”

“You are to travel south. To lord Círdan.”

Maedhros’ voice is level, and I wonder at his composure, but then I catch a glimpse of his gaze, shorter than a heartbeat, and realize that the apparent indifference is but a shield that hides a torrent of grief.

“Why?” The twins stare at him, uncomprehending. But then there is a flicker in their eyes, and in a short while their faces glow with hope long abandoned, hope that is painful to watch, knowing how swiftly and cruelly it will be put out.

“Our parents…?” Elrond whispers. “They… Have they returned at last?”

Maedhros looks away, the mask of indifference nearly slips, and shame, guilt and anguish I see in his eyes stab my heart. But this, too, lasts merely for a brief while, and the twins do not notice. Still, they realize that something is not right.

“Uncle?” Elros takes a step closer. His expression now is rather that of hesitation and uncertainty than hope. “Are we to travel to meet our Naneth and Adar?”

“No.” The reply comes after some time. “There is war in Angband, and the northern lands have grown perilous. You must travel south, therefore. For safety.”

The hope vanishes. The twins look at each other in dismay.

“But we do not want to go!” exclaims Elros, fervently shaking his head. “We shall not leave you! And if you will go to battle, so shall we! We can wield weapons; you have taught us to fight!”

“Yes!” Elrond nods, supporting his brother. He looks at Maedhros and finds his face unreadable. He turns towards Maglor, but Maglor averts his eyes. “Uncle Maedhros, uncle Maglor, that is not all. What is happening?” Elrond’s voice now is trembling slightly, as he looks at both his kinsmen in turn. “You are distraught! Why? Please, tell us!”

“Sit, both of you.”

Maedhros waves his hand towards the chairs. The twins sit down, tense with worry. Maedhros remains standing. They look at him, surprised and anxious, for before them now stands a stranger, distant and cold, so very different from the uncle they know and love.

“It is time for you to learn what happened in Sirion on the day we found you.”

Maedhros stands silent for a while, his gaze averted, turned towards the window, as if the words he is about to say were written in the overcast sky. When he looks at Elrond and Elros again, his face is resolute.

“Of the Two Trees of Valinor you have heard,” he says. “But not the whole story. While we still dwelt in the Blessed Realm, Fëanor, our father, made three jewels and captured therein the blended light of Laurelin and Telperion. Thus came to be the Silmarils, the wonder of craft whose like shall never be made again.”

Curiosity appears in the eyes of the boys. These are the parts of the history of the Noldor they have never been told in full.

“But Morgoth, who was then called Melkor and walked free among the Valar, lusted for their light,” Maedhros continues. “After having slain the Trees, he stole our father’s jewels and fled to Endor. Then we swore to pursue with revenge and hatred him or any other who would lay their hands on the Silmarils.”

He tells of the Oath. Of our departure from Valinor and pursuit of Morgoth. Of the wars in Endor. And, as he speaks, cold slowly creeps towards my heart, when I realize that there is nothing in his story that would call forth sympathy or even understanding towards those who took the bitter road of vengeance. Not in the short, clipped sentences that relate only events, but not why they happened. Not in the cool and flat tone of the speaker. Not in his composed face and eyes. The boys do not know, they cannot know how well their uncle has learned to hide his anguish during the years of torment in Angband and afterwards. They would not know how to read the barely visible signs. The shadow veiling his eyes. The fingers of his left hand, clenched into fist, to keep them from trembling. The brief halts in the story that shroud in silence everything that might invoke compassion from those who are listening. Every word he speaks is truth. But it is not the whole truth.

I nearly interfere and tear away this veil of silence, bringing forward not only the evil we have done, but also the evil we have suffered. I already make a step forward. But I halt when I suddenly realize what Maedhros is doing. A clean cut heals best. He does not want the twins to feel any compassion. He wants them to turn and leave without any regrets. And I take a step back again and keep listening how the eldest son of my once best friend is lashing at himself with carefully selected bits of truth, and silent tears roll slowly over my face.

Maglor realizes his brother’s intent sooner than I do. A shadow of pain passes his face, but then he brings his expression to calm determination. For a brief while he catches Maedhros’ gaze and lightly nods in quiet understanding.

Elros and Elrond sit frozen on the edge of their chairs. They have now learned how Lúthien and Beren gained the Silmaril. Now there is the story of Doriath and Sirion left to tell.

“After Thingol’s death, Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien, ruled in Doriath. After his parents’ passing, he took possession of the Silmaril and refused our demand to return it. So we came upon Doriath with force. There was bloodshed. Many of the Doriathrim fell, but some escaped – including Elwing, Dior’s daughter.”

Elrond gasps quietly. Elros is leaning forward, clutching the armrests of the chair. Maedhros looks at them closely for a while, then speaks on. There is even less expression in his voice than before.

“Years later, we learned that Elwing dwelt in Sirion and still had the Silmaril. We sent messages, demanding the return of our father’s jewel. Again, our claims were denied, and we came to Sirion with strength of arms and fought those who resisted us. Your father was then on the Sea. Your mother, fleeing from us with the Silmaril, ran to a steep cliff on the shore. When she saw that there was no escape from that place, she turned and took a leap from the precipice. The Sea took both her and the jewel.”

As Maedhros relates the last part, the deeply troubled expression in Elros and Elrond’s eyes is exchanged for disbelief. Then for fear. Then – for sheer horror. When he falls silent, they spring to their feet, and Elrond’s eyes, wide and pleading, dart towards Maglor.

“Uncle Maglor, please, tell us that this is not true!” he whispers hoarsely. “That all this is not true! Please!”

But Maglor finds enough courage to look in the eyes of the boy he has raised as his own son.

“This is true, Elrond.”  His voice is quiet, yet firm. “Regrettably, all of this is true.”

“You lied to us!” Elros’ shrill voice cuts the silence. “You came to Sirion for some cursed jewel your father made, killed everyone there, drove our mother to her death, and then you took us here and lied to us! And you killed people before too! All that for a damned shiny stone!”

There is no reply, or, rather, the reply is silence. The face of Elros is pale, nearly white. His hands shake; he clenches them into fists, then takes a step towards Maedhros and Maglor. They stand motionless, and I am certain that none of them would resist if Elros stroke him or even drove a knife in his chest. Therefore I tense, ready to interfere. But Elrond restrains his brother. Eyes wide, he stares at his uncles, and only one whispered question passes his trembling lips.

“Why?”

“Do not speak to them, Elrond! Never ever speak to them again!” These words of Elros come as a scream. Then he seizes his brother by hand and drags him out of the room. But just before the door he halts and looks back, tears streaming over his face, eyes glinting. “I hate you! I hate you!”

The door slams shut. Maglor collapses in a chair, hiding his face in his hands. His brother stands still, his features frozen, his eyes stare unseeing into nothingness. Eyes of one who has no hope left. I remember well this gaze from Mithrim, and pity wrenches my heart. But I know what I must do. I draw my hand over my face to dry the tears and take a deep breath.

“Lord Maedhros, lord Maglor, I ask your leave to accompany Elrond and Elros as they go.” I make a step forward.

As if suddenly awakened, Maedhros turns slowly, only now becoming aware of my presence, and he does not hide his grief anymore – not from me. I have seen so much of that anyway. Long he looks into my eyes, and I think he understands my reasons. He nods slowly.

“Yes. Go with them and take care of them, as much as you can. That will be for the best. Thank you, my friend.”

He stirs, as if to make a step towards me, but then instead kneels beside the chair where his brother sits motionless. I turn to leave. There is nothing I can do here. There is nothing I can do for your sons anymore, Fëanor. But maybe I still can do something for the children they have raised.