Happy Birthday, Ceana! This one is yours as you know, and you know why! Please, check out Ceana's wonderful tale "Maedhros' End".
Thank you for helping me to be a bit more open-minded about certain elves. I will try to not be quite as stubborn about things in the future. ;)
Big thank you to Lady Elleth for providing the inspiration for this story with her lovely "Trees of Neldoreth"; and thank you for adding yet another dimension to a certain wayward OC.
indicates that the quote was taken from History Of Middle Earth Volume X: Morgoth's Ring
'Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Feanor, and Feanor's kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar castest
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal him ere Day's ending,
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwe and Varda!'
- Feanor's Oath
The Matter of Song by TreeHugger
"We have failed, Atar…. We have failed, and now your darkness will fall on us as surely as it has on these this night…."
The voice was low, defeated; the grey eyes hooded beneath long dark lashes. The bloodstained sword gripped in his left hand felt heavy and loathsome to him, and he wished he could cast it away from him forever, but he knew could not. He had not the strength.
"We are cursed," he whispered to the ground, trampled and bloody beneath his feet. "I never wanted this…not this…."
The words of the Oath filled his mind, a mocking torment that would never leave them. Rash they had been, and foolish; now, they would pay for their arrogance and their spite. The words spoken in passion on that day long ago would chase them the rest of their lives until they lay dead, slain in violence as they had slain so many others.
Maedhros closed his eyes, leaning wearily on the sword; his head bowed, rich auburn hair streaked with blood falling over his shoulders.
"It will never be over, will it?" he murmured in a low voice shaped by sorrow and unrelenting disillusionment. So many innocent lives now bloodied their hands; too many….
"Lo! On the House of Feanor the wrath of the gods lieth from the West into the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by the treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever."
The dark figure on the high rock that had intoned these fateful words had haunted Maedhros' dreams over the years. They had brought this doom upon themselves, and many of them had quailed before it, and yet his father, his bright, burning Atar had dared yet to be defiant, spitting back his own words and sealing their doom for all time, caring not for threats from the Valar themselves nor for what would befall them because of it.
"…Therefore I say we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda."
"And what songs shall be sung about us, Atar? What will they sing about the fall of Doriath? That we are grand heroes fighting for a right cause or that we are frenzied murderers with no regard for anything but our own greed, slaughtering anyone who stands between us and what is ours …."
His broad shoulders slumped, wishing there would be no songs sung about he and his brothers, thinking that silence would be better than what could be said in any verses shaped into a melancholy melody, only words of despair, anger, and loss. Better they had not taken the Oath or yet repented of it and returned with Finrod to Valinor and begged for forgiveness.
"I want no songs…."
He straightened, sweeping his hair away from his face with an angry motion of his head, his eyes resting on the leather caplet that adorned his right wrist.
"Haven't we paid enough in pain and sorrow?" he muttered, lowering his maimed arm to his side. Hadn't he suffered enough while hanging from Thangorodrim? Hadn't all the treachery they had seen been payment enough? "How much will be paid before it is over?" he whispered to the soughing wind, the slight moaning from the trees.
His gaze drifted to the ruined gates before him. What the Naugrim had not destroyed of mighty Doriath now lay in twisted ruins, trampled and defiled, never to rise again. Dior was slain, not having his mother's powerful protection when he decided to take up the Silmaril, and brought the wrath of Feanor's kin down on his kingdom. If only Thingol had listened when first they had told him to yield the Silmaril up to them, none of this might have befallen! Nay, it would not have!
Maedhros sighed, moving with leaden steps toward the fallen gates. Thingol had not yielded the jewel to them and thus wrought his own demise and that of his kingdom and his people. The evidence of this folly could be seen everywhere from the fallen, twisted gates, to the bodies that lined Menegroth's halls and lay felled beneath the mighty trees, all once protected by Melian, who had abandoned them on her husband's passing into the Halls of Mandos. Everywhere was blood, and death, and horror – notes in a broken melody that would never end.
Yet it all could have been avoided….
The blood-soaked ground beneath his boots was abhorrent to him, as were the faces of the dead with their gaping, disbelieving eyes. These elves of Doriath had been ill-prepared for this assault, barely remaking their lives into some semblance of peace and yearning for things to return to what had been before, though things were inexorably different now that the magical age of Elu Thingol and his Maia wife were over.
Our doom has long-reaching fingers, he thought bitterly. It touches everyone we come into contact with and spills onto them and theirs.
Yet they had known this when they had journeyed here to Arda, willingly had they brought this doom upon all of the Firstborn.
"Behold! Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow…."
Maedhros ground his teeth together as he moved to walk beneath the towering beeches of Neldoreth, their silvery trunks splattered with blood –blood of the innocent and the guilty.
A wellspring of bitterness bubbled with in him as he thought of the futility and the useless waste their lives had become – all due to the Oath and the jewel that held them enthralled; the captured light of the two extinguished Trees of the Valar. But even as he mourned their fate, he felt the odd mingling of pain and desire that all thoughts of the Silmarilli brought, and the tingling of fell madness that plagued them, raging in their very blood, filling them with the fire that had consumed their father Feanor, that siren call to eternal pursuit across time and sanity.
He drew a ragged breath, his footsteps staggering as he forced the feelings back, forcing himself to feel the cold air, the sharp pain of the indrawn breath, the murmuring of the trees. Yes, the trees knew despair and distress that day as blood seeped into the ground at their roots; spilled life's blood nourishing them in a way they would not wish.
Still the anger lingered and when at last he came upon three bodies, flung together in an obscene dance with death, the rage welled up even more and he snarled, moving to them, sword gripped tightly.
It was Caranthir, his body riddled with arrows. The other two, Maehdros knew not, but he did not care. All he could see was his brother – dead upon the crimson-splashed ground….
His brother's normally dark complexion was pale; his cheek smeared with blood – his own and others - his hair fanned out on the ground beneath him, eyes vacant and staring at the uncaring sky overhead. Maehdros dropped to his knees beside him; his fingers brushing over the grey-feathered arrows that protruded from his brother, and anguish filled him. This was too high a price to pay…three brothers gone of the seven…. Three of their lives ended in this ill-advised attack. Tears slid over his cheeks, mingling with the dried blood that marred his face and he laid his sword aside for a moment, so he might close Caranthir's eyes that no longer saw anything.
"May the Valar be merciful to us," he murmured, gazing steadily at his brother's face, as still and cold as marble, and as beautiful. "Please."
He wept silently for a time, grasping Caranthir's cold hand in his. When at last he lifted his head, his eyes - bleak yet burning with a wrath that was fell and bitter - moved to the arrows that had ended his brother's life. Three arrows were long, pale shafted darts, feathers as grey as Caranthir's eyes had been. Yet, oddly, two more arrows - shorter and fletched in blue - protruded from Caranthir's chest. From their position, Maehdros knew these were the ones that had taken his brother down into death.
He did not know what to make of this, and in his grief, he cared not. All he knew was that three of his brothers had fallen this day, and still the Silmaril eluded them! Why had they not heeded his advice and Maglor's sage counsel? Why had Celegorm's words fired that hatred and fell blackness within them? Why had neither he nor Maglor been able to resist the lure of the jewel? Their words had been as chaff blown in the wind and were lost, meaningless.
"We are cursed," he whispered, the words falling into the still air like drops of blood wrung from his heart.
But before much grief and bitterness could overwhelm him, a slight noise caught his attention. He lifted his head, like a hound scenting its prey, eyes as bright and alert as a hawk's as he scanned the surrounding trees, the darkness of nightfall gathering beneath them. He rose slowly then, his hand reaching for his sword once more. The cold starlight danced along its bloodstained length as he slowly headed into the woods.
The child was kneeling next to one of the towering beech trees, his arms flung about it trunk with his face pressed to the chilled bark. A steady stream of words in the language of these Dark Elves, low and intense, emitted from his lips, occasionally broken by sobs of despair and heartbreak.
Maedhros stood silently, watching this sad tableau, hearing the child speak of the horrors he had witnessed this day, the sights and sounds that would haunt his dreams and waking moments for a long time to come.
Feanor's eldest son was about to turn away, leave the child to his grief, when his eyes fell upon the bow and quiver lying discarded on the ground behind the youngling. The bow was too large for such a small elfling, but it was the spill of arrows that caught and held Maedhros' attention. The shafts were of pale wood, small enough for a child to use, and the fletching upon them was blue.
His silver-grey eyes flicked back to the child, his interest no longer so benign, no longer so distant and detached. He took in the bloodstained sleeve of the youth's tunic, the cloak hanging askew, obviously donned in haste. The long silver braid that hung down his back was streaked with blood and unkempt. For a fleeting moment, Maedhros wondered if the child were kin to Thingol, but it mattered not. This, he was certain, was Caranthir's slayer – this Dark Elf child with the blue fletched arrows.
Anger and compassion warred within Maedhros, raging storms that tore at his very soul. When he took a step forward, the child turned startled, eyes wild with fear. The smaller elf gaped up at the tall warrior before him, taking in the bloodstained clothing, the long red hair, the cold grey eyes. Then, his gaze drifted to the length of silver in Maedhros' left hand, the dried blood upon it black in the starlight.
The child stood slowly, his back pressed against the tree, and Maedhros could see the tremors that shook the slender body, the teeth chattering together in a harmony of terror and uncertainty. When the youth's eyes flicked to the bow and arrows on the ground between them, the tip of Maedhros' sword rose menacingly and he shook his head, moving swiftly to kick them beyond reach.
"Who are you, child?" Maedhros asked in a quiet voice, his anger at facing the one who had slain his brother tempered by compassion for the elf's youth and the dark thought that their Oath had made Kinslayers of children.
The youngling did not answer but, in one swift movement, knelt and pulled a slim leaf-shaped dagger from his boot, holding it protectively in front of him. The slender hand that held it shook as fear sent more tremors through the young body even if he tried to appear brave, a fierce scowl on his face. And yet, the eyes were filled with such terror that Maedhros felt his heart ache.
"What happened back there, young one?" he queried, nodding his head to where Caranthir lay with the two others. Were they perhaps the child's parents? Did it truly matter?
Silvery eyes darted behind Maedhros and the little face crumpled, the bottom lip trembling and tears spilled over the child's too pale cheeks. Feanor's son knew that the child could recall too well what had happened and from the way the young elf gazed back at him, eyes filled with guilt, sorrow, and heartbreak as well as confusion, he knew that the child was indeed the one who had brought about Caranthir's demise.
"Well? What befell?" he prompted, knowing that if it had been an older elf standing before him, he would probably have slain him by now.
"He…he…."
"He what?"
"He was…he was killing them!" the child managed at last, the words an accusation as more tears fell over the blood-streaked face to drip to the ground at his feet. Bewilderment overcame him as he said this, and Maedhros knew that even this youngling knew that what he had done, which had seemed right and just at the time, now distressed him and caused him to question what had happened.
Maedhros gaze slid to the ground and a great bitterness welled in his heart. This cycle was never-ending, would never end until they possessed their father's cursed jewel. Yet even as he named the Silmaril a vexation of spirit and life, he yearned to feel its weight in his hand, feels it radiance shine upon him like the blessing of the Valar….
"Why?" the child asked suddenly. "Why?"
The Noldor turned to look once more on the young elf, who was gazing so steadfastly at him and with such earnestness and such a desire for an answer to his question, that Maedhros sighed at the irrationality of this situation. There was no answer to this…. There never was….
"Why what?" he rejoined wearily. "Why did we come here? Or why did Caranthir – yes that was his name, the one you killed – slay those people? Or why did you slay him?"
The child stared at him, uncomprehending.
Feanor's son shook his head.
"Did you see it?" he said after a long silence had fallen between them. "Did you see the jewel that your king wore? Elu Thingol and then his grandson?"
He wanted the child to say yes, he had seen it and it had been a marvel and a delight to behold. So lovely and perfect and…. But the child merely stared up at him, silvery-grey eyes still deeply troubled and not knowing what it was Maehdros was asking of him.
"The jewel, child. The stolen jewel they possessed by no right at all!"
He had to make the child see! Make him understand why they had to come here…even when he had not wanted this and tried to prevent it…. Someone had to see and understand!
"The Silmaril?" the child whispered, as though fearing to name the thing aloud. Slowly his eyes traveled over Maedhros, resting on his right wrist, covered by the leather caplet. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and his mouth gaped, bottom lip trembling.
He shook his head, meeting Maedhros' eyes though terror coursed through him.
He did not know who I was until now, Maedhros thought sadly, even as he straightened proudly, staring down at the small elf.
"What is your name, little one?" he asked patiently. "For you know mine, and it is only right that I should know yours."
But the child could not speak, stood trembling with renewed fear, doubting not that this bright-eyed son of Feanor – Maedhros himself! – would surely slay him for what he had done to his brother.
But Maedhros shook his head, his eyes filling with compassion and sorrow.
"I will not harm you. I am done with killing this day," he said in a low voice. "Where are your parents, child?"
There was no answer save the sudden tears on the child's contorted face and the gulping sobs, as he slumped to his knees, completely overwhelmed by the events of this day. He was suddenly vulnerable once more; a scared elfling who had lost the last of his family and did not know where the others he knew had gone or if anyone he knew had survived at all.
The knife dropped to the ground unnoticed, and Maedhros, tears on his cheeks as he too mourned the lost of this day – his own and those of Doriath - sighed and closed his eyes against his own overwhelming pain.
"Go, little one," he murmured at last, turning away. "Find the others. I will not let anyone come after you. Go." He would have offered to take the child with him, but he knew that this offer would be feared and refused.
He heard the elfling get to his feet, but he did not run as Maedhros thought he would. He turned back to see the youngling's tear-filled eyes on the bow that Maedhros had kicked out of his reach.
Feanor's son lay his sword down and moved to pick up the discarded weapon. He held it out to the child, who reached hesitantly for it, taking it and clasping it to his chest. Then, after staring in wonder at the tall, auburn-haired Noldo, he turned and ran into the darkness.
Maedhros watched him go before turning to retrieve the forsaken quiver containing a few blue fletched arrows. Worked into the stiffened leather was the child's name: Tanglinna. He sighed, and slung the quiver over one shoulder before picking up his sword once more.
He moved back to where his brother lay, shoved his sword into the dead grass, and took the quiver from his shoulder, laying it on the cold ground beside Caranthir.
"There will be no song about this day, brother," he murmured, kneeling so he could brush a lock of disheveled hair from his sibling's face. "This is not the matter for songs that our father spoke of."
Bowing his head, more tears anointing his cheeks, he did sing. Not about the horrendous, tragic events of the day, not about the Silmaril though the thought of it burned in his veins, trying to urge words from his throat, but a song of mourning and great sorrow – a song for the slain…and for those that yet lived, even if no one heard.
"Tears unnumbered you shall shed; but if ye go further, be assured that the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains"
Not far away, the child halted, turning to listen to the clear voice raised on the night air, lifted to the skies above. He bowed his head, not moving away again until the song vanished; its words forever etched in his heart. Then he turned and ran once more, only the trees noting his passing.
The End