This Is Judgment Night

"Tea does our fancy aid,

repress those vapours which the head invade,

and keeps that palace of the soul serene."

-Edmund Waller

Steam curls delicately from the kettle's spout. Here I sit beside the low table in the right-most of the two sitting rooms, watching the pot breathe forth its hot fumes. My cup rests beside it, hungry, empty, waiting to be filled; I am thirsty and I am cold: I want tea. A genuine smile- the first since a time I cannot even remember- crosses my face as I lift the cast iron jug from its position, but disappears when I am forced to drop the kettle heavily back down upon the tabletop. How could I expect to be capable of lifting such a thing?

Wordlessly, Makalaurë leans over and lifts it for me, pouring out the steaming, ruddy-red liquid until a hand from me signals enough, still holding Maitimo- who speaks- in rapt attention.

"Brothers, I have no plans to attack these innocent exiles. Think- some of them were made thus by our own hands. Is it just; is it kind; is it right to continue to make war upon them for a jewel we do not have to need?"

I simper sadly down into the swirling murk of the tea; poor Maitimo- he has yet to come to terms with the fact that this is a burden that will not ever be cast aside. I want nothing more than for him to be free, but such can only even begin to come about unless he does the very thing he has just spoken against.

Raising the cup to my lips, I blow on it, dispersing much of the steam before swallowing a great draught of it. The tea burns like acid within my mouth, upon my tongue, down my throat. I hastily slam the cup back down onto the table, missing perhaps a third of its contents. Milk- milk will cool it; I lift a small porcelain pitcher and dilute the tea with a stream of snowy white. It is so pure, before it mingles with the tea, tainting itself while bringing the tea just the tiniest bit closer to its own once-innocent hue.

It is Pityo that responds, unless it is Telvo. (I care not to look up; my eyes are for the tea alone.) "What, Russandol, could you possibly mean by that?" The quiet answer is clearly rhetorical. "There is little clear in our lives save that we must use force to reclaim the Silmaril. Since the exiles refuse to surrender it peaceably, our only hope lies with invasion. You know that."

Maitimo sighs. "Ever you hold your own interests foremost."

Even after seeing the milk disperse over the tea's surface, I lift a long-handled spoon and rotate it once, twice, thrice, around the cup. It must be fully saturated; let mingle the liquids, leaving not a drop of either wholly inviolate or wholly darkened. Apprehension rises unbidden within me as I raise the cup, no longer steaming, to my mouth once more. I beg, let it not burn.

"Where else should they be held?" is the response, from Telvo, it appears. "Vows such as ours are not fond of taking second place. If you wish to think less of the Oath, there is no option but to attempt its satisfaction." He is met with silence from Maitimo.

At first I smile; the temperature of my drink could be no more perfect. It soothes the burns left in the wake of my first swig, but it does little to sweeten the flavour of what I now begin to realize is a terribly bitter bunch of leaves. Grimacing, I swallow, trying my utmost to keep the liquid from brushing many of my taste-buds. Where is the sugar?

Makalaurë speaks up, for only the second time since this debate began. "He is right, Russandol. There is no other way. You know I would stand as you do, and even more firmly, if there were aught beside war that could quell the Oath. I am tired; I only want this to be over, and I will take any means to that end. Don't you see? This is our climax; all is downhill from here."

"I, our, me- when did we cease to realize that we are not the only ones damned by our vow?" Maitimo's tone is caustic. "Our rashness- and the violence it has goaded us to- reaches far beyond the house of Fëanor and its jewels. As for myself, I would rather bear the burden of the Oath than that of innocent life. There is enough blood on our hands as it is."

I scoop two great dollops of sugar out of a small jar and into the tea. I take up the spoon once more and vigourously go about integrating these latest additions into the concoction taking shape in my cup. Around and around, here we go again. I only hope that the flavour improves.

"The Oath leaves you no options of personal feeling or moral judgment, no room to weigh it against remorse," Telvo answers him. "You reclaim the Jewel, or you are left to the Void."

The quiet lingers just long enough for the rapid clinking of the spoon's bowl against the sides of my teacup to grow pronounced and dominant, long enough for Maitimo, rubbing his temple, to murmur, apparently irritated, to me, "Rányë, I am sure you've stirred more than sufficiently."

I glance up from my concoction to murmur, "I am sorry," in return as I freeze my hand mid-motion and remove the spoon, looking away from him in time to see the tea continue to swirl in the wake of my vehement mixing. With a deep breath- in contrast to the exhale of earlier- I elevate the cup and take a hesitant sip.

"But would the Void really be so terrible?" counters Maitimo. "The crimes we have already committed are so unforgivable that I fear the Void is already our fate, regardless of how we try to deter it. Would it not be better to suffer alone someday in the distant future, than to inflict suffering upon innocent others now? Our foolishness in swearing the oath is no fault of those innocents; why should they pay the penalty for it?"

Lukewarm and grainy, the tea is nothing shy of repulsive. It is all I can do not to throw the cup in disgust down to the table, and with great concentration of effort I set it down with overdone gentleness, shoving it aside as soon as it hits the tabletop. I need a new serving entirely.

"But you forget, Russandol," interjects Makalaurë, "those whose fate was, as you say ours is, already the Void. Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Curvo died without fulfilling the Oath; where do you think they are now? The Oath tells us: Everlasting Darkness. Someone will pay the penalty for our actions, whether we invade the Havens or not. Would you rather it be your own brothers or greedy strangers?"

The liquid streams forth from the spout with a puff of steam, not too much, not too little. I scoop out the sugar first, to let the heat melt the crystals while it lasts, taking but one helping for now. I have left room for a splash of milk to cool the tea, and I pour it, taking up the long spoon to stir it all together once more, this time doing so slowly, quietly, and deliberately.

Tone flat, Maitimo replies, "But you forget, Makalaurë, that we are bound to not one Jewel, but three, the other two of which are- no doubt- permanently out of our reach. With that in mind, it is the Darkness for all seven of us, and it is all one whether we take Sirion or not. There is nothing that can be done for our brothers, for, without a successful attack on Angband itself, the Oath can never be fulfilled."

Pityo ignores him."Russandol, our oath did not say, 'whoso hideth, or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth, or afar casteth all three Silmarils together' will have our hate and wrath, but that he who withholds from us even one of them will die at our hands. It left the amount of hope for completely fulfilling it out of its calculations entirely; we swore, so we must try."

"But it does not provide an excuse for our sins," answers Maitimo, voice hollow. "The judgment we receive for them will not be any the less harsh because the oath consigned us to pillage, burn, and massacre. We are still responsible for the lives we have taken; you act as if the Oath exonerates us."

"It does not exonerate us," says Pityo simply, "nor does it excuse us: It merely explains us."

"And makes us predictable," adds Makalaurë. "I doubt that many in all of Arda are oblivious to the Oath's existence. Whenever someone takes a Silmaril as his own, he does it knowing full well that it is our property and that we will seek to reclaim it, at whatever cost. We have always asked kindly; we have given two chances to both realms, warning them of what this monstrous oath would make us do and become. We asked, even demanded, that they surrender it peaceably; they refused, and thus sealed their own fate."

Maitimo sighs. "I know."

"Are they really so blameless, after all? Are we really so much more selfish or greedy than they?" Telvo's soft queries bite even me like darts. "They have Mandos; death for them is peace- not so for us. We may be doing them no favours, but at least we do them no real harm- nothing like what their greed will inflict on us."

"Weigh the finality, Russandol," Makalaurë takes up the argument. "Their misery will be only temporary. I know you would say that our fate is the Void regardless, without the other two Jewels, but would you also thus abandon hope? I refuse to accept such a doom until I lie dying, slain by a last attempt to regain the Jewels. Will you damn yourself so soon?"

I purse my lips and clench my eyes shut, slowly elevating this fresh cup to my lips. Its sides are warm, but it is not steaming; the tea is shaded with milk but not so diluted as to cool it immediately. I open my mouth once more and tip it up ever so slightly, taking in the tiniest swig I may of its contents.

"No," Maitimo answers, "I will not."

Perfect. Warm but not hot, sugary but not grainy, and even the milk has added a sweetness all its own to the mixture. At last I have got it right, and I savour the tea before letting it slip its way down my throat and taking another small sip. My hard labour has been fully compensated, and the fruits of it are more than satisfactory. I smile again, delighted by the meshing of the tastes to form the most delicious cup of tea I can remember drinking.

"Am I to take that as an agreement to make the attack?" says Telvo, a smile almost in his tone.

"I hope so," asserts Makalaurë. "We need you, Russandol; you cannot leave us to fight this battle on our own."

I dare for once to glance up from my tea, in time to see Pityo nodding his agreement.

"And I have no plans to," replies Maitimo simply, leaning forward in his position beside me. "When shall we make our invasion?"

"Thank you," whispers Makalaurë, making eye contact with his elder brother that expresses more than words ever could.

Maitimo sighs, looking at me for the first time, a smile- strangely- upon his face. I only return it, peeking over the rim of a now-empty teacup.