"I've failed."
"No, you haven't."
(They both know this is false.)
"She told me to protect them, to look after them, to not lead them astray. I promised her."
He doesn't answer.
"Now it's just you and me. I've failed."
Maedhros (Nelyafinwë, Maitimo in another life; Findekáno called him Russandol) drops his brother's cold, bloody hand and stands.
"What do we do now?" whispers Maglor. (Kanafinwë, Makalaurë, when he could still cleave gold.)
"What, indeed!" Maedhros snaps. "There is nothing else for us. Nothing at all. We are the Dispossessed, the Oath-Takers, the Kinslayers, the Cursed-Unto-the-Everlasting-Darkness! What do we have? A rag-tag band of disillusioned followers, our brother's half-mad widow, and barely ten horses between us. Everything we touch is cursed. We should have been slain long ago, long before Turgon, long before Finrod, long before Fin-" He broke off with a sob. Maglor put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Maedhros straightened, wiping his eyes, his face mirroring a song born out of despair, long ago. "The world would have been spared much sorrow had it not been for the thrice cursed House of Fëanor." He turns away. "And I couldn't even protect my little brothers."
"Maedhros, you did all you could."
"Did I?" Maedhros fingers the hilt of his sword, and laughs, a short, bitter laugh. "I could have made sure we were all assembled before father set fire to the ships. I could have restrained Celegorm, and waited until we were stronger before attacking Doriath. I could have killed that bastard before he shot our brother, if I had only been paying more attention!"
Maglor's voice trembles as he speaks. "You tried restraining Celegorm. I remember. But he would not listen to you. He never did."
"I know."
They stand thus for a long time, the wild sea-wind tearing at their hair, alone on a beach strewn with blood. In the distance, lonely figures search the debris, giving the brothers a wide berth. (Hollow eyes watching them, "They are cursed.")
Maedhros turns abruptly. "We need to give him a proper funeral."
Maglor nods.
When night falls, the body of the sixth son of Fëanor burns on the funeral pyre, like his brothers before him. Maglor stands with one arm around Caranthir's small Sindarin widow, who weeps into his shoulder. Maedhros stands a little ways away from the others, cold, so cold, despite the fire. (They all felt cold that day or night long ago, when the ice burned their hands, and the fires burned without mercy.)
"I'm sorry, Ammë, I could not keep my promise. All I have left you is Makalaurë, and I doubt you could even recognize him now, for I led him astray."
The fires burned, casting the land in a strange, dark light, a different world from the one he knew – it felt like ages ago, not just that same afternoon.
What had he even been doing that afternoon? Probably something that seemed important at the time. Oh yes, he had been writing a song for that maid, with Maka sitting beside him, helping him with the music, when everything went black. His pen skidded on the parchment, his arm knocked against something, and he felt liquid dribble onto his leg, most likely the ink. He heard Maka jump to his feet, something falling over (it must have been the chair), then Maka again, cursing. (Makalaurë never cursed.)
They lit lamps, and tried to find the others, but then the front door opened (the wind came in, and blew out the lamps), and a foul stench filled the air, and a scream followed it. He ran to the front of the house when he heard it, crashing into Tyelko and running into several walls. He found the front door when he slipped in something, and toppled onto his dead grandfather, still warm.
Someone heaved him to his feet, wobbling (his hands were wet and sticky), and he heard Maka's voice, directed at one of the house servants. "Go find our father, and tell him King Finwë is dead."
Then Curvo's voice, hauntingly like his father's, from outside: "The Silmarils are gone!"
They sat in the house in silence for a long time, waiting, the lamps creating strange shadows on the walls and over his brothers' faces. Carnistir kept cracking his knuckles, until Maka told him to stop.
His father came at last, wrathful.
He did not question him. How could he? Grandfather was dead, the Silmarils gone. The fires burned, flaming from their hearts and off their tongues, reflecting in their blazing, virgin swords. He saw his little brothers, his dear little brothers (not so little anymore) speak the words which would one day kill them. He remembered building towers out of blocks with Curufinwë ("Now knock it over, Nelyo!"), giving Carnistir a bath ("But I like being dirty, Nelyo!"), hunting with Tyelko ("Didja see how I got it, Nelyo? Didja?"), trying to find the twins during a thunderstorm ("Can we sleep with you, Nelyo?"). He remembered cradling Makalaurë for the first time, thinking, I'm a brother now ("Can we take them, Maedhros? They have nowhere else to go . . .").
He spoke the words with them, not daring to question, not knowing. (Everlasting darkness for them all.)
When he returned to the house with Maka, to gather the rest of his things, his mother took him aside. Her eyes were round and red, but her voice was strong and unwavering.
"Your father has deluded you all," she whispered.
He shook his head. "We must go, Ammë."
"I know. I fear for you."
"Ammë, we know what we're doing." (He did not, but what else was he supposed to say?)
Now she shook her head. "Atarinkë . . . he's too much like your father. And Carnistir, my fire-brand, he is dangerous. Might kill himself one day in his rashness."
"Ammë, what are you saying?"
"Take care of them, Maitimo, my sunbeam."
"Of course."
"Promise me. Promise you will look after your brothers. Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarinkë, Ambarussa . . . Makalaurë. They need you. They look up to you. Guide them. Don't let them go astray. Protect them. Promise me."
He didn't even think. "I promise."