Choosing Fire

I am not shocked that he chose fire as a means to his end. Ever has it been a part of him. In both the shadow and light of his fëa and in his choices.

Russandol we called him. Copper-top. His hair often gave him away during our games of hide and seek. Or perhaps he simply let us win, all his younger brothers. That is something he would have done. For the color of fire was not only the hue of his strands, it was his warmth, his love.

From the time of my own birth to the coming of Ambarussa, he was ever patient. He embodied comfort and the wisdom of elder brothers. How we loved him, desiring to make him proud of us as much as our parents. He helped raise us, and though he understood some of us better than others, he cared for us equally.

Even after our coming of ages, he was the stronghold to us six. When Atar and Ammë grew apart, when Atar coveted his Silmarils more than the love of his children, when the slowly simmering hate for his father's second family and Morgoth's deception caused Atar to threaten Ñolofinwë. Throughout our stay in Formenos, he was the bright star in the gloom.

When the Dark One slew our grandfather, when we were sucked into our father's madness and unquenchable desire for revenge and swore the damning oath, his warmth sparked into something else. At Alqualondë, we saw what our Russandol was capable of. What we were all capable of. He became raw power. His kind touch turned violent. His soft words of encouragement became war cries.

At Losgar, as our crazed father burned the last tie with our kin and Aman, he did not participate in destroying the Swan Ships. The fire of resolution shone in his eyes that day. But also tears for the lives gone and the abandonment of Findekáno.

He was the resourceful one, the one with much inner strength. Upon our father's death, he became our high king and we gave thanks. Russandol would lead us well, and we would achieve our goal. But even he was not immune to Morgoth's offer. And he left. Left to meet with the one who never told the truth. For thirty years he survived the Dark One's torture. I became king in his absence, but I knew in my heart I was not made for this role. Guilt ate away at me. Had I made the correct choice? Was Russandol lost to us whether I heeded Morgoth's terms or not?

Our cousin had bravery and boldness where we had none. He saved our beloved brother, the one who tied our family together. Yet it had its cost- Russandol's ever steady hand. One of the pair that had held each of us, played with us, helped us learn to write and read… it was gone. And so was part of the Russandol we had known.

Fire still burned in him, but it was faint and nearly extinguished. And the fire had been fed with hate and darkness and need for survival, not love. Lamps, torches, and candles became his companions in the black of night. He had to see that there were not orcs to torture him, wolves to nip and rip his flesh, balrogs to whip his back. He needed to see his surroundings when he awoke from nightmares, screaming and trembling. Time passed and bits of our Russandol returned.

When he surrendered the crown to our uncle, I was confused. Our brothers were angry. But we loved him too much to hold his decision against him. He was the head of our house and though never silent with our opinions, we obeyed.

We moved east, and I made sure to be close enough in case he needed me. War came and retreated throughout the years. His fëa was consumed with grief when Findekáno fell as high king. Russandol saw only his cousin and friend's dead hröa. That mourning turned into blind need as the oath again took hold. The fire from Alqualondë was back.

Our three middle brothers were killed in the Second Kinslaying. While the four of us grieved, Russandol did even more so as the eldest who had failed to protect his siblings. Our comforts were in vain and more of the light left his already tired eyes.

When Ambarussa fell, I wondered if I would lose Russandol too. But what gentle and pure fire remaining in him was sparked by embers in the form of twins. Elrond and Elros saved me. They saved him. I saw a part of him in those years that I believed had departed forever. His warmth returned. He discovered he still had the ability to love.

But it could not last and in our final act of unselfishness, we sent them to Círdan and Artanáro, or Gil-galad as he was better known. War was once again coming, and we would not have the twins with us when the oath awoke. We fought and slew foul beings again, and Morgoth was finally defeated and taken to be cast into the Void. We wanted nothing more than to rejoin the twins somewhere far away, to put some distance between us and painful memories and the hatred from many of the Eldar. But we could not and we did not. With swords in our hands, we killed again. The Silmarils were reclaimed, and the herald of Manwë let us leave.

He surely knew we would destroy ourselves. That fire would burn away our evil deeds. Russandol was so tired and so was I. The jewels held nothing good for us. They burned our hands, and as I cried in pain, I saw Russandol make a decision. I had seen that unshakable determination so many times before. He looked at me once, tender and affectionate, not caring about the searing of his skin and flesh. He again looked like the Russandol I knew as a child. It filled me with both comfort and foreboding.

"Farewell, brother- mine," he said. "Carry what little good we all possessed, Kanafinwë. I will always love you."

And with that he ran faster and faster, ignoring my pleas to stay. My feet stumbled after him. The air became hotter and more stifling until I saw where he ran to. I screamed and begged him not to, but my words were absorbed by the smoke permeating the air. He glanced back once at the edge. He smiled sorrowfully. Then Russandol jumped. And my brother, full of fire, became one with it.

*Author's Note

Russandol- Maedhros/Maitimo/Nelyafinwë

Ambarussa-the twins- Amrod and Amras

Atar- father

Ammë- mother

Ñolofinwë- Aracáno/Fingolfin

Findekáno- Fingon

Artanáro- Gil-galad/Ereinion

Kanafinwë- Maglor/Makalaurë

The Silmarillion and Tolkien Gateway used for reference.

I do not receive compensation for my writing, only satisfaction and joy from adding my contribution to Tolkien's legacy and the opportunity to express myself. All characters and places are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien and those he gave the rights to.