I own nothing.
"I will only ask this once," Melian said, once they were alone, and there was no trace of her usual good humor, nor any trace of her usual inscrutability in her face or voice. "Have you lost your mind?!"
Typically, when planning to issue decrees, add or make alterations to the laws of Doriath, Thingol consulted with his wife first. It was sound practice; Melian wouldn't be caught off-guard in public and made to look like a fool, and Thingol would have someone he trusted not to be thinking of her own interests first to consult with. Over the years, it had become something he did automatically, and Melian, Thingol had discovered, did not like it when he deviated from this pattern.
"No, my love," he responded testily, looking around his study for a quill and ink pot and bare parchment to write upon. "I find that I am still quite sound in mind." If he was furious, he had a right to be.
There was a sharp rustling of cloth that Thingol could only assume came from Melian smoothing down her skirts in an abortive attempt to calm herself. "No, I suppose you have not. There's not nearly enough foam around your mouth for that," she remarked sarcastically. "So that's one good thing at least. But Elu…" Some of the fire left her voice, to sound weary instead. "What do you possibly hope to gain by this?"
Thingol turned and looked at her incredulously. Melian's face showed shock and anger and tiredness, showing emotion more nakedly than he was used to, far more than he was used to. He looked at her incredulously, and she stared at him in disbelief. "What do I hope to gain?" he said slowly, tasting the words in his mouth, and all the while marveling that it was evidently so opaque to her. "What I hope, Melian, is to teach the Kinslayers that not all will bow to threats of murder and theft."
"And you think that banning the use of Quenya in Beleriand will do that?" she asked tiredly.
"As a matter of fact, I do." Thingol's lip curled in the beginnings of a snarl. "What better way to punish their crimes than to strip them of their very language, and make them pariahs for cleaving to it?"
Melian sat down at the table in the middle of the room, reaching up to rub her forehead. "Perhaps that is one way to look at the issue." Thingol bit back the urge to snap about Melian reducing a massacre of the Teleri down to an 'issue.' "But please, Elu, think about what you are doing."
He noticed again how tired she sounded, and any anger Thingol harbored against his wife evaporated. She was not the one he needed to be angry with. Thingol took a seat opposite his wife and sighed. "What would you have me do? Completely ignore the wrongs the Noldor wrought in Aman? Take vengeance upon them, and wash my hands in Edhil blood as well?"
She shook her head. "No, my dear." Melian smiled faintly. "And it gives me great relief that the first thought in your mind when you learned of what had transpired was not to exact retribution. But I am not certain that banning the use of the Noldor's tongue is a good solution either."
"How so?"
"Elu, within the confines of Doriath, such an edict can be easily upheld. The Edhil here will adhere to your wishes, even those not of the Sindar. But what about beyond the borders of Doriath?" Melian's brow furrowed. "How do you expect to enforce a ban on Quenya outside of our kingdom?"
"So long as our people adhere to it, easily," Thingol told her stiffly.
Melian's eyes flashed with irritation. "It's not that simple!" she snapped. Thingol stared at her, amazed; this was the closest he had ever come to hearing her shout. Even when Lúthien had, as a little girl, climbed on the exterior of the caves of Menegroth after Melian had told her to stop, Melian had not shouted. She seemed surprised with herself as well, for Melian drew a deep breath before going on. "It's not that simple, Elu," she said again, more calmly. "You have to think.
"You propose a ban on the language of Quenya, in both its written and spoken forms. You propose also that any among the Noldor who continue to use Quenya shall be taken as unrepentant Kinslayers, and should be shunned by all the Edhil of Beleriand. Such a ban can be easily enforced within Doriath. This is the stronghold of the Sindar; any Noldo here would have no choice but to speak Sindarin. But what about the lands beyond our woodland home?
"Beyond Doriath, the Noldor by far outnumber the Edhil of Beleriand. They have already built great cities; they have vast armies, and many weapons. But most important is their numbers. Most of the Edhil outside of Doriath live in small communities, isolated from one another. Some of them might choose to follow your commands, out of loyalty to you. If the Noldor use Quenya around them, the Edhil might shun them. But the Noldor will not care. They will continue to do trade with their own people, and communities of the Edhil who do not adhere to the ban."
Thingol scowled, and she laughed a little. "Oh, Elu. Do not give me that look. You know very well that not all of the Edhil living here acknowledge you as their overlord. Or even like you all that much. Many of the Green-Elves do not care that you are High King over the Sindar. The only King they have ever acknowledged or will ever acknowledge is Denethor, and he lies in his grave on Amon Ereb. And do you honestly think that any of the Avari care at all that you were the Valar's chosen ambassador to Aman?
"And what of the Edhil who choose, or are forced by the Enemy's raids, to come to live in Noldorin cities where they have some hope of safety? What will become of them? With your ban in place, Elu, they have two options. They can adhere to it, and be utterly cut off from everyone around them, except those who also follow the ban. Or they can break it, and become pariahs themselves among the Edhil who do follow it. Do you really think—"
The creak of the door being pushed open effectively cut off anything else Melian was going to say.
Thingol craned his head around his wife, and saw his daughter standing in the doorway. But Lúthien had no eyes for him; if anything, she seemed to be avoiding looking at him altogether. "Mother?" she asked, hesitant and ill at ease. "Artanis wanted to speak with you. She…" Only at that moment, did Lúthien's eyes flash to Thingol's face, but it was only a moment, and soon they were back on Melian. "She seems upset."
For someone who had been so intent on making him see her point of view on things a moment before, it was startling, truly, how quickly Melian rose to her feet and crossed the room. She smiled faintly at her daughter. "Let's see what she's upset about, then." The smile faded from her face as she turned back to look at Thingol. "Please… Please think about what I said."
They were gone.
Thingol leaned back in his chair and sighed.
He had amassed ample experience in dealing with groups of Edhil who had very little in common and, more to the point, absolutely could not get along with each other. Since the Enemy's raids had started, so many different groups of Edhil had flooded into the forests of Doriath, seeking shelter. There were, for example, the Nandor community living in the east of Doriath and the clan of Avari that had settled not far from them (And to set the record straight, Thingol knew quite well that not every Edhel in Beleriand acknowledged his authority; neither of these two communities paid any mind at all to Menegroth and those living in it). The two absolutely did not get along, which Thingol found rather ironic, considering that they were very much like in their habits, more akin to each other than either were to the Sindar.
When they all still lived by Cuiviénen, Thingol had become somewhat infamous among the Nelyar for constantly threatening to solve disputes by knocking the heads of the offended parties together. He still threatened to do that from time to time, though these days mostly in jest. His dignity as High King over the Sindar would not allow him to do such a thing.
Thingol wished, however, that he'd been there to knock Olwë and Fëanáro's heads together. He might have been able to stop the chief Kinslayer in his tracks, if he had.
Fëanáro… Finwë's son.
Suddenly, Thingol found himself wanting to scream rather than sigh.
His brother's grandchildren had given him a brief account of the history of Finwë's house in Aman. I need to apologize to them for my accusations, he mused ruefully. Artanis looked as though she might faint when I accused her of murder of her mother's people. The five of them had told him all they knew, and Thingol believed that he could piece together what had occurred.
Thingol remembered Finwë. How could he not? Finwë had been probably his closest friend; it was he who first gave the eldest of the three Nelyarin brothers his nickname, Singollo, which would become Thingol, Grey-cloak. New of Finwë's death, especially the manner by which he met it, and in a place where he should have been safe from all harm, Thingol grieved to hear it.
He remembered Indis and Míriel as well, though Thingol had known the former better than the latter—Indis had, as the Minyar's messenger, visited the Nelyar often, while Míriel rarely left the Tatyarin camp. He had clear images of them both in his mind, clever Míriel, quick and witty, quiet Indis, braver than most gave her credit for. And now Míriel was dead as well, and Indis was left without either her husband or her friend. Thingol grieved for Finwë and Míriel, and though centuries and an entire ocean separated them, he felt he must have grieved with Indis as well.
But he grieved for his brother's people more.
Elmo had stayed behind, all those centuries ago, to look for him after he vanished into Nan Elmoth with Melian, and Elmo had been swallowed by the dark himself. When Thingol had emerged with Melian, when he established Eglador, Elmo never came to him. Instead, Thingol found a nephew, a niece, and two grand-nephews he had never met, telling him horrible stories of their people's wanderings and of the brutal death of their patriarch at the hands of the Enemy.
Olwë had gone on ahead, leading the people now called the Lindar across the sea to Aman. Thingol had found his brother's grandchildren by a daughter he had never seen, and he had received terrible news of the foul murder of the Lindar for their ships, led by Fëanáro and his sons.
I should have been there. I should never have strayed away from the camp.
Thingol would not trade his wife, nor his daughter, not for all the riches in the world, nor the resurrection of the dead. But he could not deny those thoughts. If he had been in Aman, he would never have allowed the Kinslaying to pass. If he had been there, his surviving brother would not now grieve for the countless dead.
However, Thingol had not been there, and the Noldor had perpetrated a heinous massacre against their kin the Teleri. Blood was on their hands, and would be there forevermore. Thingol did not care that the chief Kinslayer was dead, nor that his eldest son had been maimed, and that he had relinquished the High Kingship of the Noldor to his uncle. It was not enough. No Kinslayer's hands would ever be clean. Reparations had to be made. Nothing would ever be enough, but the Noldor had to pay for what they had done. They could give up their language, or be accounted utterly unrepentant. They should be grateful that Thingol hadn't asked for more.
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Artanis—Galadriel
Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)
Nelyar—the third clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Teleri (singular: Nelya) (adjective form: Nelyarin)
Minyar—the first clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Vanyar (singular: Minya) (adjective form: Minyarin)
Tatyar—the second clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Noldor (singular: Tatya) (adjective form: Tatyarin)
Eglador—the former name of Doriath, before Melian set her barriers about it
Lindar—'The Singers'; the name Olwë's division of the Teleri gave themselves