Disclaimer: Blahblah, the usual.
A/N: Damn, but it is getting harder to write now with so little time. Ooh. Bad!pun!
*
There was a definite stillness in the room at that statement. Of course, the Company had long given into the fact that, yes, they had no idea on this side of Endore just how to get rid of the Silmaril, but actually hearing it being admitted struck new fear into them. They were lost: never in the history of either Men or Elves had something so obscure, so barely believable been construed. How the work of children were meant to be saving graces was an ever greater challenge: how could thirteen years of sedentary life compare with thousands of years of knowledge and experience? They had three Jewels of most dangerous priority, and they traipsing through an endless amount of crazed notions concerning the, hmm, Fate of Arda.
'Well,' Thranduil said shortly, beginning to feel that even his daffodil was wilting. There was a short silence as all present stared at him. 'Well,' he reiterated slowly, attempting to salvage what remained of his thoughts into a serviceable teepee for his brain to hide in and whimper. 'Well,' he said for the third time. The daffodil really did feel like it was wilting.
'Well,' the Company echoed back at him from across the table.
'Well,' Thranduil drawled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. 'Well, why are you asking that of a Sinda?'
Pause.
'Well,' Erestor said, suddenly very uncomfortable with the entire situation.
'Well,' Ecthelion countered, obviously putting much more meaning behind the syllable.
'Well,' Glorfindel tried to reason, but no words emerged.
'Well...' Ren grasped at straws, and came up empty handed.
Sara saved them all.
'Well, we don't exactly have the brightest of ideas on what to do next, yes?'
Pause.
'Well,' the entire room chorused.
From the door, Galion resisted the urge to rub his temples. This was turning out to be a long day.
*
Far Across The Sea...
It could be interpreted as an obsession. There was no life in them anymore, only a endless jealously, a desire. No level of motivation could equal this fervour, this death in undeath. No hands could unmake this, no mind could unravel it. It was desire, an unquenchable need, lust, want. Countless years had passed, and never had this desire faded for Feanor, never had it lessened or grew cold in its intensity. It was an obsession.
But Maglor. Maglor and Maedhros had changed. They seemed, to his eyes, different. His two most glorious, most praised of sons: Maedhros, he who took after his father in the heat of blood, and Maglor, he whose voice wove illusions around those already disillusioned by the vanity of life. But they had changed. The notes that Maglor sang, the notes were more sombre, and had lost the determined focus of days long ago. And Maedhros: the fire had quelled even Maedhros himself. There was black flame in his eyes, a flame chill to feel, and devoid of the burning charisma that Feanor had long appreciated.
'Adar,' Maedhros had said softly to him. 'Adar, let us be rid of this burden. Let it rest.'
Maglor had sat in a corner, eyes gleaming, but had left words unsaid. Feanor was not sure how to act on this. This hesitance, this lack of loyalty... How was it to be viewed? How was it to be reprimanded, corrected, made right?
'Maitimo,' he had replied firmly, and Maedhros had flinched. 'Maitimo, I cannot let go of this. You cannot let go of this. This is what we have worked hard for. It is our right. Ours.'
Ours. The words seem to reflect, hollow in the face of his son.
'Adar,' he had repeated, as low as a whisper and as brief as a passing zephyr of wind. 'You are our Adar.'
Maglor had left, as if too entrenched by the emotions Feanor had seen passing across his face.
'You are our Adar, and we trust you.'
And Maedhros had left.
*
Back in Mirkwood...
'They are mortals,' Thranduil said finally, after the silence had begun to gnaw on their nerves. 'They are mortals and they cannot pass.'
'But Fr--' Sara started, but was immediately hushed by various members of the Company. That had not yet come to pass. Ren attempted to correct it, and threw an old example in.
'Tuor,' she said simply. 'Tuor passed across, and was counted immortal.'
'Tuor,' Glorfindel muttered quietly. 'Tuor was chosen, chosen and touched by the Valar themselves. That he passed was not his decision to be made, but rather a gift. A gift granted to the most extraordinary of Men.'
'Indeed, the deeds and trials of Tuor far outmatch any of yours,' Ecthelion supported, his forthright words ringing in the children's ears. 'That he passed is incomparable to you and your friends.'
'But we were, in a way, chosen,' Diana countered. 'We were, in a way, touched by the Valar.'
'No chill air can emulate that of death,' Ren added on cryptically.
'And no chill death can compare to that of which you will face if your decision is wrongly made,' responded Thranduil. 'Numenor: the ways of Men, the errors of Men, the death of Men.'
''Tis human to err,' Shu contributed.
'But this,' Gildor said, motioning to the covered Silmarilli. 'This is not human. This is of elf-work, of elf-make, and thus it is Elven in both heritage, and in future.'
'Then we would not be here,' Si calmly pointed out. 'Why would we end up in such a place if not to make decisions: whether right or wrong?'
'But what decisions must you make?' Galdor murmured. There was silence.
'If no mortal hand may touch them,' Ren intoned, 'and no living hand unmake them, then what decisions lie open to us?'
'These Jewels,' Ecthelion muttered with a touch of hatred in his voice, 'these Jewels carry the blood of my kin, of the kin of every Elven family. They must be unmade, whether by living hands or not.'
'These Jewels,' Gildor debated heatedly, 'these Jewels are the history of our people.'
'A history perhaps better left forgotten!' Ecthelion raised his voice sharply. 'What Elf needs to remember the death and the insanity? What Elf desires to? What Elf wants to recall slaying his own kin, and in seeing the death of his own people the death of his own soul?'
There was a heavy silence.
'But,' Ren said, 'but maybe it is meant for you to remember? Maybe our choices do not lie in what to do with the Silmarilli, but rather... what the Silmarilli mean.'
'What more could it mean?' Glorfindel finally snapped. 'Your presence has revealed nothing, changed nothing in the time you have been here. If bluntly put, you have been nothing more but a thorn in our sides. Your life span is nothing to us, your memories scattered and disjointed. How can you possibly empathize with such horror and death? You have not seen such massacre as that was at any of the Five Wars: whether at the Battle of the Sudden Flame, that Battle of Unnumbered Tears or any other one remembered in the unfailing memories of elf-kind!'
'No,' Ren said heavily, 'no we don't have your experience or your memory. But perhaps this memory is the memory the Valar want remembered: what the Silmarilli mean to your people. They have represented death and suffering for so long. Perhaps it is time you remembered that and purged the memories from your souls. The Elven lines have fought through misery and longing and want for these things: maybe the revulsion is a lesson to be learnt. Our "quest" might not be to destroy or exalt these Jewels.'
'If the wisdom of your people has won through the ages, why must the fighting continue? If the Feanorians, and indeed if Feanor himself, are alive, isn't that your duty to ensure the rallying of all people? Instead of war, why not peace. Give it to them, and let them learn the lesson that has taken your people millennia: let the Jewels destroy them, and in that let the Jewels purge them.'
Diana's words were followed with more silence.
'Ai Elbereth,' Ecthelion said slowly. 'Is it our fate to be blinded so by years of memory?'