He read the letter again, for the ninth time, as if it might change if he continued to look at it. It did not, though the letters swam queerly before his eyes.
In a choice between wisdom and pride, which emerged victorious?
The door opened and he thrust the letter at his wife. "Read this." She cocked her head at him, but took the missive. As she looked over it, Dior rose and paced from one end of the room to the other, uneasy and uncertain.
"Somehow I am not surprised," she murmured, looking up again, eyebrows quirked. "You are?"
"No," he said, and paused before adding, "I am more surprised that there was warning at all."
"Why? It would be the sensible thing to do."
"Yes," Dior said, not quite savagely. "Exactly." He had lived for too long on the stories that amounted to behave or the Fëanorians will get you, and the loathing for that brood of (barely) lesser monsters was slow to fade, even over years of silence. Some things refused to change, and then this seemed to claim that they should.
Even the words were wrong. Mercy, it read, and amnesty. Offer an alliance against the massing might of our common enemy. It was diplomatic, it was sensible, and something about it made Dior nervous.
"I'm afraid I don't follow," Nimloth said, quietly, setting the parchment back on the table.
"What is to say," Dior said tightly, "That they will not – if, if I accept these terms, take the return of the Silmaril and turn on us anyway. Their name means vengeance."
"Then why send any message at all? If they only plan to attack at any rate – they clearly have the advantage, do they not? There would be no reason to send a warning." She tapped her fingers against the dark wood of the table. "And certainly not one so polite as this."
"You don't know them," Dior said, nervous tension prickling along his spine. "They aren't polite. Not like that. Something is wrong."
"Perhaps the problem is that you know them too well," Nimloth said, quietly. Dior shook his head, frustration mounting. Something was missing here. He wrapped his hand around the jewel at his throat and tried to divine something from its glow through his fingers.
He paced a few more times. "Perhaps it is an attempt at intimidation. A bluff. If Morgoth is stirring surely they will look there first, and know that an attack here, against ius/i, would be folly, a useless waste of energy. If I give them no answer then we will lose no face and it will cost us nothing."
"Perhaps you should give it over," Nimloth murmured softly, and he turned on her, anger flashing in his eyes.
"When my mother and father paid so much to take it?"
He could see her plant her feet, stubborn. "What do you gain by keeping it? Will you still count it so vital if you lose your wife, your children, your life for something that is ultimately only cold stone?"
"You know not of what you speak," Dior said hotly, and Nimloth's eyes flashed.
"Do I? Remember Alqualondë? I have not forgotten, at least, how many died there."
"They will not come here," Dior said savagely. "They will not dare."
"And if they do?"
"Then we will fight them back," Dior said, passionately. "We will match them blood for blood, and force them to concede. Or do you truly believe us so inferior?"
"What are you banking on," Nimloth cried out, sounding nearly desperate. "On mercy? You yourself claim they have none. On our might? They are warriors born and bred, trained to kill. On cowardice? Matching pride for pride, even you cannot beat them for that vice."
"No," he said, fiercely. "No. They will not come here. And if they do, then we shall show them the error of their ways." He lifted his head, even the thought of wisdom fading. "They will remember that we have driven them back before, and understand that the house of Elu Thingol will never give up what belongs to it."
"Even when it was stolen from a thief in the first place?" Nimloth murmured, and Dior turned his head away and pretended not to hear.
**