Blood of Innocents

By Glorfindel's Girl

Day Two, Evening: Maedhros

          Maedhros surveyed the markings upon the ground with a grim expression.  Celegorm's servants had done their job well – too well.  They had wanted to leave no chance of rescue for the young princes by any of the survivors.  The tracks of the horses crossed atop each other, tangling together in such a jumble that even not even Fëanor's eldest son could determine the correct direction.   

          Suppressing a cry of rage, Maedhros kicked a near-by beech tree and sat down heavily beside the tracks.  He had wasted precious time already by following a false trail all day.  Silently, he cursed himself for not realizing it earlier.  The tracks had been to plain, the trail too obvious.  He should have known.  Now the sunlight was fading fast, and he was no closer to locating the children than he had been when he first began.  And the wind was growing colder.  The dark grey clouds above carried threats of snow. 

A sudden gust of wind raised goose bumps on Maedhros' arms, and he shivered, drawing his heavy woolen cloak tighter.  The chill was little more than a mild annoyance, but he knew that it would grow worse ere this night was ended.  He tried not to think about the children, huddled together to keep warm, shivering in the cold night.  He had to find them.  Had to undo some of the evil his hands had brought.  Maedhros leaned back against the tree, and rested his head in his hand, lost in thought.

"You want to know why, Maedhros?"  His brother's words raced through his mind once more.  "Because of this oath.  Because of Atar.  Because of you."  Maglor had been right, Maedhros realized.  It was his fault.  All the death and destruction, all of the lives so cruelly cut short, it was all because of him.  The gravity of his actions seemed suddenly to press down upon him, threatening to overwhelm him.  How many murders?  How much blood had he spilled?  He knew, knew, that if he were to look down at his hands at that moment, that they would be covered in the blood of countless innocents.  And they would always be.  Such stains, once set, can never come clean.

It was no wonder Maglor had reached his breaking point, Maedhros realized.  If their actions were weighing so heavily upon his own heart, how much heavier were they upon Maglor's?  Maglor, the gentle one, Maglor the singer.  Maglor who would sooner have been a scholar than a warrior.  How long had he kept his emotions so fragilely bound, that they would finally burst forth with such violent force as to make him momentarily unrecognizable to his own brother.  All this and more raced through Maedhros' mind as he sat upon the damp ground, weeping in silence, oblivious to the deepening shadows and the white flurries falling steadily around him.  . 

When he finally looked up, tears still drying upon his cheeks, it was fully dark, and snow had begun to settle in a fine white powder on the forest floor.  How long had he been sitting there?  He could not continue his search this night; in the darkness he feared he would miss some sign that might guide him to the children.

Finally, he decided to build a fire, in hopes that if the children were wandering about in the woods, the light might draw then near.  As he fed dried bits of wood to the flames, he began to sing softly.  It was no more than snatches of a half-remembered childhood melody, but it seemed to comfort his soul somehow.  If only he could have sang like Maglor, then perhaps the boys would hearken to his voice, and come to him.  But no, he was only copper-haired Maedhros, and he was no singer.  After some time, he cast himself upon the ground and fell into an uneasy sleep. 

He awoke once, and found that the fire had burnt itself down to embers.  Sitting up slowly, he surveyed the woods around him.  Seeing nothing, he lay back down, resting his hand upon his sword hilt.  Though he lay still, eyes closed, he did not sleep.  Somewhere out in the darkness of the forest, he knew he was being watched.