Disclaimer: All the characters are Tolkien's, except for the slightly inept captain and the elusive lady )
Strictly speaking, Amras and his brothers would have used each other's Quenya names, not the Sindarin versions, but since they are more commonly known by the Sindarin ones I thought it would be easier for people to follow the story if they were used. There is, therefore, an interesting jumble of Sindarin and Quenya—apologies to anyone who is particular about their Elvish!
This was written for the birthday of Michael, the other Amras ;)
"Amrod?"
The voice was weary, hoarse, hollow; barely recognisable as that of his brother. He ignored it and continued throwing open chests and boxes, spreading their contents on the floor and casting the empty containers aside.
"Amras?"
"This is useless," he said flatly, without turning. "Either they would not dare to keep the Jewel in such a common vessel, or it could be in any one of ten thousand like places."
Nonetheless, he still ripped his dagger through a velvet pouch, spilling the pearls it had held upon the floor, where they rolled away unheeded into the corners of the room. Twisting the shredded material between his fingers in frustration, he exclaimed, "We must find Díor, curse him!"
"Díor has been found."
Still his brother spoke in that same flat, repressed tone, but Amras felt sudden eagerness wash through him. Spinning on his heel, face alight, in half a dozen quick strides he had crossed the room to the door where Maglor stood.
"The Jewel is found? You have it? Let me see it!"
His eyes were darkened and voice shaking, but Maglor only shook his head.
"We do not have the Silmaril."
It was only after the first crushing waves of disappointment had subsided into the customary tired near-hopelessness that Amras truly noticed his brother's face. The fine features were drawn; beneath the sweat and blood his skin was grey and his eyes—
"Maglor," Amras whispered. "What has happened?"
"Díor is dead," his brother replied, toneless voice now belied by the soul-destroying anguish in his eyes. Faint hope and unformed fear warred for a moment in Amras' heart: could it be that it was only the death of Lúthien's child that made Maglor look so? That he had no greater grief to tell? No.
"Tell me," he demanded, voice brittle.
"Celegorm and I first went to the royal chambers," Maglor began, eyes distant and voice that of a storyteller who has little of interest to relate.
"We came upon Lady Nimloth and Celegorm threatened her, tried to force her to give up the Silmaril. She would not—she refused, repeatedly. Díor came, then, and drew blade, attacking Celegorm. They duelled and—"
Maglor's curious light eyes focussed suddenly on Amras' face.
"Celegorm is dead, Amras."
He had known what was coming, of course, and awaited it with dread; yet now the words were spoken, the truth was known, he felt…so little. There had been sorrow when his grandfather was murdered, his father slain; sorrow and rage and denial and bitter regret. He would have expected to experience a similar range of emotions now, but he did not. There was little of the pain Maglor seemed to feel, not even a desire for vengeance; merely the ashen taste of inevitability.
"You told me Díor is dead," he replied flatly. Maglor blinked and nodded.
"After I knew Celegorm was dead, I asked Díor to give up the Silmaril—as compensation for my brother's blood, if for no other consideration. He laughed at me, said that he knew enough of Celegorm to recognise the worth of his life—that it was not even a seventh part the value of a Silmaril."
A small, objective part of Amras' mind noted with faint interest that anger did begin to stir within him at such an insult to one of his kindred.
"And then?" he prompted at last, for Maglor seemed lost in a kind of horrified recollection.
"Then—then Díor fell on Nimloth, weeping. Curufin came soon after that; when he saw Celegorm dead and Díor's sword all bloodied he did not stop to ask who had done it; did not even try to discover the whereabouts of the Jewel. He slew Díor where he sat without a word and then left. His face frightened me, Amras, and I could not stop him."
For a moment the two brothers stood silent, their thoughts unshared. The sounds of distant battle had been audible throughout their exchange, but now the ring of steel, the shouts of victory and the screams of agony seemed to be drawing closer.
"Celegorm is slain," Amras said slowly. "His death has sent Curufin wild. We do not have the Silmaril. Díor and Nimloth are dead and so cannot speak to us—they took our best hope of finding the Jewel with them when they died."
"Yes," Maglor muttered. "And Menegroth is in carnage."
Amras nodded. "We must go."
Before they could move, however, the light sound of running footsteps warned them of the imminent approach of another Elf. Amras drew his sword in one swift, reflexive motion; Maglor had no need to do so for he already clasped the hilt of a naked blade. He raised it silently and the brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, poised for attack should it prove necessary.
As it happened, no weapons were needed. The footsteps turned the corner in the hall outside the chamber where Amras and Maglor waited and at once they recognised the broad form and harsh features of Caranthir. He, too, bore the marks of battle: dark plaits of his hair matted with sweat and blood, sword glistening scarlet in the torchlight.
"You are wounded," Maglor greeted him. Amras followed his brother's gaze to where a blood-sodden rag was bound about Caranthir's calf.
"Aye. A scratch, merely: cursed Sindarin arrow found a way past the armour-'tis nothing."
"Have you heard about-"
"Celegorm?"
Caranthir's face was grim as he nodded. "Maedhros sent me to find you. He wants us to draw back to the Great Hall-all of us."
Amras' pulse quickened once more.
"He has found it?"
He stared keenly into Caranthir's face, that distant objective part of his mind recognising the answering glow of desperate desire that kindled in his brother's eyes as closely akin to that burning in his own heart.
"I know not; surely he would have spoken of it!"
"Let us go," Maglor quietly interrupted, turning to walk carefully in the opposite direction to that from which Caranthir had approached. He led them with considerable assurance through the empty, echoing passages and the others followed unquestioningly.
The sounds of fighting faded as they wound their way through Elwë's halls, but Amras knew that neither his own men, nor those who followed his brothers, would cease the attack on the Sindar without command-unless all of one side were already dead, of course.
It happened so quickly. They were walking in single file, Maglor first, then Caranthir, with himself just behind. He rounded another corner in his brothers' wake; Maglor was standing perfectly still in the centre of the passage, sword clasped loosely in his hand but pointing to the floor. A grey-clad Elf stood only a few yards further down the corridor, dark hair falling loose over slim shoulders. Almost before Amras had time to assimilate the scene before him, there was a sudden movement to his right—steel glinted in the hand of the Sinda—there was the silken whisper of a blade slicing the air, followed by a soft, sinister sound—and Caranthir was stepping backward, fresh blood falling in great drops from his sword.
The Sinda looked faintly surprised; there was a final hiss of exhaled air and then the grey form lay motionless on the stone floor, a dark pool spreading beneath the abdomen.
Amras stood gazing down for a moment, watching as the light faded from the grey eyes and the fair, mobile features took on the dreadful beauty of cold marble sculpture. Maglor bent briefly to straighten the long tunic and brush the eyelids closed. "She was barely more than a child," he said quietly. His tone held distant regret, but no reproach. There could never be any accusation against one of their brothers, not from any of them, not since Alqualondë.
"Sindarin thief," Caranthir said harshly, stepping across the body. "Hurry, both of you!"
A sudden wail from the end of the passage, however, warn them that further difficulty lay ahead, in the form of a second elleth who stood staring aghast at the fallen girl and the three princes before turning and fleeing, her frantic screams drifting back along the hall.
"Utumno," Maglor cursed, translating the broken Sindarin. "She is calling for aid, quite specifically: it would appear she has close kin nearby."
"Quite a lot of close kin," Amras, who had also been listening carefully, agreed.
"Quite a lot of angry close kin," Maglor corrected.
"Let them come!" Caranthir said scornfully. "If they have a wish to share this maid's end I will not deny it. Did they think to escape the fate that claimed their king?"
He moved forward, raising his sword with both hands on the hilt, so that the dim light played over the copper-stained blade like a gleam of fire.
"No!" Maglor answered sharply, clutching Caranthir by the elbow. "We came here for the Silmaril, not to for needless slaughter."
Caranthir's eyes flashed, but he allowed his brothers to lead the way into a side passage that followed the general bearing toward the Great Hall.
Though they passed on their way many evidences of recent battle—lost or discarded weapons, numerous trails of blood and several bodies from whom the fëar had just departed—they gained the side entrance of the Hall with little further incident. Maedhros had made certain to secure it at the beginning of the attack and the guards at the door now wore his colours, their faces calm but eyes constantly alert as they admitted the three brothers with salutes that seemed vaguely incongruous with the situation.
The Hall was near empty, its vast size barely occupied by the few dozen Elves gathered there. Amras, catching sight of one of his own captains, paused to inquire after his twin's whereabouts and immediately became entangled in an extremely involved account of one element of the attack that had gone wrong. It included mention of, among other things, an ambush; a highly aggressive elleth with golden hair and full armour, who screamed disconcertingly in Sindarin as she fought; a major error of judgement on the part of Captain Círyantur's lieutenant and the unfortunate demise of almost his entire company, but Amras, who had more important matters to consider, was for the moment barely interested.
Caranthir, he had seen, was walking away from the group of soldiers clustered around Maedhros, who was easily recognisable as the auburn head among the dark. Dismissing the captain, who had not, after all, been able to give him the information he sought, Amras passed through a group of Maglor's men and caught Caranthir by the shoulder, halting his rapid progress.
"Maedhros has found it?" he asked, reproducing his words of half an hour before. If his brother had then been eager but frustrated, however, he now was furious, as Amras realised as soon as Caranthir turned and his face could be seen.
"There will be no Silmaril found tonight, not here!" he said angrily, biting the words off as though grudging the very sound of them.
Amras felt something deeper than disappointment, duller than bereavement, stronger than regret clutch him in a clammy-fingered grip.
"Why? What has happened? What did Maedhros—"
"He told me it is no use, Amras! Told me that the Jewel is gone out of our grasp, for the moment. One of his men, before he died, informed Maedhros that he had seen that traitoress Eleniellë escape from a secret side passage; she was carrying a child and had that gilt-haired whelp of a son with her."
"What of it?"
"The child!" Caranthir snarled. "She must have been one of Díor's brats, for he said round her neck someone had flung the Nauglamírë, there could be no mistaking it!"
"What? And this man, he recognised the Jewel and did not try to halt them?"
"Of course he did, fool! The boy had some luck with his sword and managed to injure Maedhros' man so he could not follow. 'Tis well for him that he died moments after the rest of his company found him!"
Amras' mind was swirling with conflicting trains of thought.
"So, Lady Eleniellë, her son and little Elwing are alone in the forest with the Silmaril? They will not get far, surely—Maedhros must have sent men after them!"
"Yes, of course, Amrod went with a number of your soldiers as soon as it was known what had happened, but the Sindar are practically Wood-Elves and thanks to Elwë's isolationist policies they know Region as no-one else can! There will be others with them, too; you know as well as I that there are groups of Sindar all through Neldoreth and Region, and no doubt the incompetence of our soldiers will allow some to escape from Menegroth also!"
Startled, Amras exclaimed, "But it was never our intention to wipe them all out!"
"Not yours perhaps!" Caranthir snapped, lip curling disdainfully. "They are thieves and traitors and I will not let this continue!"
His final words were a roar. Already running towards the great doors, he raised his sword once again, shouting a Quenya call-to-arms. Men all around the Hall looked up, some moving to follow him. Amras did so, too, but his aim was to halt his brother's mad charge.
"Stop, Caranthir!" he heard Maglor call. "We must leave!"
"I will never leave!" Caranthir returned, voice wild.
A gentle hand on Amras' arm stopped him.
"No," Maedhros said softly. "Let him go."
Later, when the destruction was all but complete and the surviving Sindar had fled, the Noldorin dead and wounded were gathered and carried out into the forest. Amrod had returned safe but unsuccessful from his pursuit of the Silmaril, but both Caranthir and Curufin had joined Celegorm in Mandos. The four remaining brothers stood silently over their dead as soldiers prepared the vast pyre on which they would lie alongside the others who had died in their cause.
"And the Silmaril?" Maglor asked at length, no hope in his voice.
"Gone," Maedhros answered shortly, sorrow and exhaustion radiating from him in almost palpable waves.
"Then all this…it was all for nothing," Maglor said softly, tone bewildered and wondering.
All for nothing.
Whatever his brother's thoughts, Amras felt little surprise. Why should this deed have achieved anything, when all others had crumbled to dust in their hands?
As the fires were lit, Maedhros began the song of lament and honour for the dead whose words had been scored into their minds in the centuries since they had crossed the Sea to Endóre. It was his right and duty, as eldest and highest in rank of those present, but after a moment his brothers' voices joined him, then those of all the soldiers. The sound of the Forbidden Tongue echoed across Elwë's kingdom, the irony not lost on Amras, at least.
So the Silmaril had eluded them once again—what of it? They could not stop. They would discover the whereabouts of Eleniellë and her Sindarin refugees and pursue them. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not this year or decade or century, but one day. Their search for the Jewel would be unending, their wrath against those who withheld it inexorable.
The Silmaril calls, and I will follow where it wills, come what may.