Castle
Her footsteps echoed through the throne room as she made her way towards him.
Two kings had sat on that throne and two kings had been slain within only a couple of years of each other. First Thingol, then Dior - victims of the Silmarilli.
Now a third king sat upon the throne, but he was no king of Doriath. In fact, he had not been king himself for at least a thousand years, when he had passed the crown onto his uncle, but a High King of the Ñoldor he had been.
Maedhros Fëanorian was slumped upon the throne, his bloodied sword resting on his knees, his fiery head bowed even as the sound of her measured steps carried towards him.
"Artanis," he greeted her, looking up sharply. The splatter of blood was on his face, too.
"Galadriel," she corrected. Maitimo was smart, he knew what that meant. Her allegiance was with the Sindar.
"Of course," he conceded cordially, although there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of a mind that was tired of political façades.
"You possess great arrogance to sit upon that throne, Fëanorian, given that you and your forsaken army just tore through and slaughtered its kingdom's people." She felt her words hit him blow by blow, but she was fuelled by an anger that simmered inside her, sparking up as she looked at him, Maedhros, whom she had once called family. The boy who was supposedly more Nerdanel's son than Fëanor's.
How they had been proven wrong when he had garnished his sword with the blood of his kin.
"You don't understand," he started, but it was weak – the voice of an elf who was weary of his Oath. And so he should be.
"No, I understand perfectly. You allowed Celegorm and Curufin to sway your judgement." Her fury churned inside her, igniting her insides. "All for that accursed Silmaril."
"I did not want this. You must understand, Galadriel, this was not my wish. But the Silmaril... It calls to us. It - it..." He trailed off. "I swore," he said hoarsely. "I swore neither law, nor love, nor league of swords shall defend whoso hoardeth a Silmaril from Fëanáro's kin. I am bound to this, whether I wish it or not."
"Then your quarrel was with Dior Eluchíl, not the people of Doriath." She was wearing away at him and she would raze his stronghold exterior to the ground brick by brick if it meant the insatiable fire in her heart was quenched. Let him know that there was one Doriathrim, by allegiance if not blood, who still drew breath. Let those breaths be his undoing.
"How many innocents did you slaughter today in your doomed quest? How many children, Maedhros?"
"I did not - " his voice cracked.
"You might not have, true. But what of your brothers? What of their supporters? One man in an army who refuses to kill children is hardly significant." She paused, her breathing suddenly ragged. "You know those children had parents? You orphaned them, Maedhros. When will this bloodshed end?"
She could have continued, hurling torrent after torrent of words at him until her voice could no longer form coherent speech, but she was stopped as one of the Ambarussa burst into the room, a hurtling bundle of red hair and blood soaked armour. Which of the twins, she could not tell. The way to tell them apart was the freckles, but his were so mottled with blood that she could not place a name to his face. His twin, she knew, had been killed at Losgar – the first of Fëanor's kin to be set afire by their Oath (or his own father, as rumour had it. Better to have just suffered the Ice.)
"Maitimo. Tyelkormo's men, they - they've taken Dior's sons."
That was the last brick in Maedhros' castle as it came tumbling down. She saw him crumple and fall, but could not bring herself to pull him back up. Let him drown in his deeds.
"Ready the horses. They must be stopped. I will not let any harm come to Dior's sons - that was not part of our agenda."
The lone twin nodded and moved swiftly out of the throne room. Maedhros rose slowly, lifting his desperate grey gaze to meet hers. "Leave, cousin. While you still can."