Nicole Hobday

10 July 2004

The Chronicles of Maecelofin Part I:

Of Maedhros and Tinuthiel

Chapter 1:: The Sons of Feanor

Word had reached the Noldor of a Silmaril. A rumor from the Southeast, whispered in the shadows of the world. Some claimed that one of Feanor's Jewels had nestled itself in the hands of the Sindar Elves who lived in a small abode along the river Thalos. The existence of this group was until now unknown to the Noldor, as they cherished their privacy. Yet they fought the forces of Melkor fiercely when needed, and it seemed quite possible that the rumors may be true. Perhaps a Silmaril had somehow found its way to them.

It did not take long for Feanor's sons to receive word of this, for their ears and minds were always alert for any news of the craft of their father. And Maedhros called his brothers to him and they set forth to ride with their followers to Thalos. Their journey was long but they possessed the vitality of their kind, and used it to its fullest. It was late spring when they came to the river Ascar, and it was there that they set up camp, south of the cool waters of the river. They were a majestic host to behold, and each of the Seven Sons of Feanor were present. The twins, Amrod and Amras shared a tent, being the youngest and very close in friendship. Curufin was also there, and Celegorm with Huan the wolfhound. Dark Caranthir was there with his followers, and level-headed Maglor. Maedhros set up his encampment closest to the river, in the midst of his brothers.

Thrandolfin, the leader of the hidden Sindar Elves looked across his river and saw the host of Maedhros. He knew the tales of their dark father and their fell deeds, and he called his people to safety, not knowing why they had come. But Maedhros sent forth a messenger to the old king, and requested an audience. Thrandolfin's son Thrandolhir, insisted to his father that they meet with Maedhros and discover what it was that they sought from them. But the king silenced him.

"I will not let Kinslayers into our peaceful lands," he said. "Least of all the Sons of Feanor." The messenger insisted once more, warning that his lords would come and seek what they may by force if they do not receive cooperation. Yet still King Thrandolfin rejected them, and the messenger was sent back to Maedhros with the tidings. Thus it was that the fates aligned for Maecelofin to come into the world of Arda, for with the battle that followed the paths of strangers fell upon each other, and many strange meetings would hail from it.

The Oath burned like a hot coal within the spirits of Feanor's sons, and though he loathed each time he killed Kin in order to try to fulfill that oath, Maedhros rallied his brothers and made them ready for battle. If King Thrandolfin would not tell them if they had a Silmaril then they would search for it themselves. Maglor rode at Maedhros's side, and their brothers followed behind. And for the most part they took only their closest followers with them, and Maedhros brought no servants to aid him in battle. The watchers from the little village on the slopes near Thalos sounded their trumpets, and King Thrandolfin looked forth and saw the Seven Sons riding swiftly towards the quiet town as the sun began to hang lower in the sky.

Maedhros's dark steed flew like a winter breeze. It bore him into the village with urgent haste. His sword sang as it was drawn, and his brothers followed. The city was sacked, and many were killed in the battle, including King Thrandolfin himself. But the Sons of Feanor found not what they sought, and when their swords were stained with the blood of their Kin once more they took leave of the damaged city. One by one they decided it time to go back to Ascar, and Maedhros was the last to leave. Bitter he was over the battle, and he had held his brothers back so that the city was still well off when they departed. Twenty and three Sindar Elves they slew on that night, and they had been met valiantly. The Sons of Feanor took their leave with minor wounds.

Maedhros arrived at their camp at Thalos after his brothers and a servant took his horse and saw to its needs. It was dark out, and Maedhros was weary of talking and weary of killing. The crimson-haired Elf went straight to Maglor's tent, meeting with Amrod and Amras as he went. He knew they would all have gathered there. Maedhros and his youngest brothers entered the tent, and he looked around and was relieved to see that, even if they had once again been misled, his brothers were safe and for the most part hale. He gave a sigh, and his brothers looked up as he entered.

"And Maedhros still has been undefeated!" laughed Curufin. "The Tall lives on. Perhaps Mandos enjoys watching his efforts." He and the others were sitting at a table and he poured himself a glass of wine, ignoring a gash in his arm.

The lights of the candles danced about the tent, casting them all in a golden wash. It softened the scarred face of Maedhros, and he seemed now closer to an echo of his former fair self in the light. The terrors of Thangorodrim had never left him, and despite the loss of his hand and the physical scars left emblazoned on his skin he was still very fair to look upon. Yet there was always something in his eyes that his brothers-or any Elf who had heard the tale of his capture and torment-could see. It was a distant look, like thoughts were passing behind his eyes but he never spoke them. He scanned over his brothers, standing by the entrance as Celegorm and Amras began to clean away the blood and grime from the battle off of themselves.

"I believe Mandos merely has a sense of humor, brother," said Maedhros, replying to Curufin. Maglor smiled at the dry joke and Curufin shook his head, taking a sip of wine. "Then not a trace was found?" Maedhros pried on.

Maglor shook his head. "We found no evidence that a Silmaril had ever been in this region. I know not where the rumors came from, but I am sure that they are false." Maedhros sighed, stepping over to them.

"Was anything gained in this?" He wondered out loud, resting his hand on the table. It was stained with Sindar blood. Caranthir looked up with a grin, his face alarmingly reminiscent of Feanor's.

He said, "Actually we caught a lovely creature fleeing from the fray." He took the wine bottle form Curufin, and Amrod raised his eyebrows, arms folded on the table. Maedhros looked over at Caranthir.

"My servants caught her," continued the dark-haired brother. "We left her in your tent for you."

Maedhros straightened and looked at his brother, pulling back slightly. "You did what? Who is she?" Caranthir shrugged, brushing back a long strand of dark hair form his face.

"She is of the Sindar people of Thrandolfin of course. I did not get her name."

Maedhros gave an exasperated sigh. His eyes narrowed at his brother and his voice became stern. "What would I want with her? Why did you not leave her be?" Curufin gave a laugh.

"What would any unwed Noldor prince want with a fair maiden?" he jested, looking at Caranthir for an approving laugh, which he received. Maedhros rolled his eyes, turning his gaze angrily. There were times when his brothers, especially Caranthir, reminded him far too much of their fiery father. Maglor had known what Maedhros's reaction would be and he shook his head helplessly, brow raised. Maedhros turned to leave.

"I shall return her. Do not wait up for me," he said. With that he turned his back on the company and drawing back the cloth draped over the doorway of the tent he stepped out into the night and left.

They watched him go and Curufin sighed. Amras was fixing a braid in his hair and he looked up at Maglor. "Did you think that he would have taken the maiden?" he asked. Maglor turned his gaze to him and sighed, shaking his head.

"I can no longer predict anything about Maedhros, little brother," he said quietly.

Had Maedhros not been so tense over the battle and the fact that once again they had failed to reclaim the Silmarils, he would have been furious. What were they thinking, taking a maiden captive and leaving her for him? Had Caranthir truly thought a captive would amuse him? Trust him to terrorize a poor soul. Their actions on this day were dark enough without defiling the women of the quaint and (as they now knew) innocent settlement.

He reflected as he walked back to his tent. The encampment was quiet, and the river before him was calm. The river village of Thalos had been lovely ere the Sons of Feanor ravaged it, and it still held its beauty, though now it bore a sadness to it. A quiet place, where all the Elves were closely bonded from family to family by keen friendship. It was not like the grand city of Tirion upon the hill in Valinor, where one could live within its walls for months and still not know every Elven soul to walk its streets. In this river town everyone knew each other closely, and looked after one another. Their dwellings had been carefully and aesthetically crafted with fine woodwork, and the small but majestic hall of the late King gleamed with marble and more crafty artwork was blended into its architecture. It was currently a disaster, however, no doubt still being reorganized and cleaned after Maedhros and Curufin had rode in on their horses, storming the doors and creating chaos. It had been Amras and Caranthir who slew the old King Thrandolfin as he bellowed angrily for the Sons of Feanor to be gone.

Maedhros pushed the image of the quiet town out of his mind. He neared the entrance to his tent and paused to stroke the now-cleaned flank of his steed, Turanthir. He was a large, dark horse with thick fur that was such a deep brown it appeared black. He had white socks and a brown tail, and a large splash of white along the front of his face. The horse stood quietly, resting, and he gave a soft whinny as his master approached and patted him. Maedhros stroked the horse a few times before walking into his tent, ordering the two guards that stood by to leave and take rest.

She sat near his low bed, hands bound behind her. A few scrapes and bruises displaced her otherwise beautiful form. She had fair skin and long golden hair that fell in soft waves down her back. It was carefully braided in a few places. She wore a simple yet elegant gown with long, separate sleeves. The fae raised fearful blue eyes as Maedhros entered and he paused, looking at her. She was a strikingly fair creature indeed. He gave Caranthir one thing: He knew beauty when he saw it. The darkness of his tent was unable to diminish the fair sight of her. But her eyes were now as ice as she gazed upon Maedhros, and they were immediately drawn to his right arm. Maedhros felt her eyes pierce the dark glum of the tent, which had no candles lit within it, and trail to where his hand should have been and he tensed bitterly.

But he got that look a lot, and he was accustomed to it. The loss of his hand had always stood out painfully against the appearance of his otherwise quite beautiful form. He knew this and was used to it. But that stare that he received regularly was a constant reminder of his misery upon Thangorodrim and his despair of its aftermath. Yet he ignored it and approached her with an irritated sigh. She jumped at his approach, eyes narrowed fearfully.

"Stay away," she said. But Maedhros ignored her, pulling out the long, slender blade that hung at his boot. The Sindar maiden gasped and pulled back, terrified. Maedhros frowned and looked at her.

"Peace, I am not going to harm you," he said coldly. He reached behind her and cut the ropes from her wrists before sheathing the blade. It was miraculous how crafty he had become in his actions using one hand. She seemed a little surprised, but did not argue and she rubbed her wrists gingerly, watching him stand again. Maedhros walked over to the shallow, silver water basin that stood at waist-height on a stand of bronze.

The two Elves were silent for a moment as the Sindar sat nursing her wrists and studying her captor carefully. Maedhros proceeded to slip off his shirt and battle garb, releasing them to hang at his back and sides, held on by his belts. The Sindar Elf kept her tearful eyes narrowed and glanced away from his muscular form. Maedhros cupped the cool water of the basin in his hand and brought it to the back of his neck and shoulders, rolling his head back and wondering what to do with his "guest". He continued to rinse himself of the blood and sweat of battle, and he thoughtfully massaged a sore muscle between his shoulder and neck. With a wearied sigh he looked at the Sindar Elf once more.

"What is your name?" he asked. The Elfess looked up with a tearstained face, and she looked skeptical of the seemingly pleasant question. Yet she remained silent and Maedhros gave a growl. He hadn't the time or the mind for this. He was going to let Caranthir have it before this was over...perhaps he could convince Huan to teach him a small lesson.

"You must have a name...," he said exasperatedly, straightening once more and tilting his head slightly. The maiden looked him over, considering him.

She replied quietly, "I am Tinuthiel." Then she gained some courage. "And you are Maedhros, Feanor's son."

Maedhros nodded. "Aye. That I am."

Tears fell from Tinuthiel's eyes. "Why did you attack our home?" she demanded fiercely, voice breaking. Maedhros closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Why else do Feanor's sons attack Elfkind?" he retaliated. "We heard rumors that a Silmaril had come to your village."

Tinuthiel shook her head, her golden hair shimmering in the little light there was in the tent. "A Silmaril? My people have ever laid eyes upon one." She looked up at him again, blue eyes tearful still. "That is what this is about? Some jewels? You slew my King and terrorized my people for a jewel?"

Maedhros turned away from her, untying the small knot he kept some of his hair in. It fell in a copper shower as he reached for the robes he wore when not in battle. "Take that up with my brothers if you so desire. It was they who killed the old king, not me," he said shortly.

"You lead them!" cried Tinuthiel. Maedhros paused in the tying of his robes and he walked over to her, kneeling next to her. She pulled back slightly but held his gaze. His steely eyes met hers and he considered an answer. The stress was breaking on him, and this was the last thing he wanted to do: Justify what he knew he could not. He nodded slowly.

"Aye," he said. "I lead them. They are my brothers and they follow my words." Tinuthiel narrowed her eyes again, wiping away a small amount of blood from a cut on her lip. Maedhros stood up again. "I never wanted this," he said bitterly. Tinuthiel's face softened at these words, and she looked down as Maedhros went back to the basin. He took a cloth and dipped it in the water and lightly tossed it to her. Tinuthiel hesitated, but then took the offered cloth and gently dabbed away the blood from her lip.

She looked up and watched as Maedhros worked mechanically to tie up his robes one-handed. It was remarkable how he had adapted, using shoulder and elbow to assist and hold fabric. His fingers worked gracefully to tie what needed to be tied and arrange what needed to be arranged until he had his full set of robes on. Then he worked on pulling the top layer of his long red hair back into its knot. Tinuthiel watched him silently. She had never seen such a victim of war-a victim of Morgoth. She heard the tales of heroic deeds and dark horrors, yet she had never seen someone who had been through it. And she couldn't imagine how he lived-how he could function-after loosing his hand.

"Come," said Maedhros at last. He stepped outside and Tinuthiel hesitated. But she forced herself to rise and followed him slowly. He was standing by Turanthir.

Tinuthiel brushed back a strand of hair, confused. "What are you going to do with me?" she asked. She recalled the tales of the terrible wrath of Feanor and heard that it had been passed to each of his sons.

Maedhros turned to look at her, grasping a handful of the horse's mane. "Get on," he said, giving a nod of his head to the Turanthir's back. Tinuthiel hesitated again.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. Her slender form was faintly illuminated by the pale moonlight. That pale light likewise masked the scars that raked across Maedhros's face, and they seemed to disappear.

"You wish to return home, do you not?" he said. Tinuthiel blinked in surprise.

"You...are bringing me home? Simply letting me go?"

"Yes, in what other way would you like me to say it, milady?" Maedhros replied. The day had irritated him and his temper was wearing thin. But he quieted after he spoke these words, knowing none of this was her fault.

The maiden slowly walked over to the horse, tensing as she drew near her captor and lacing her hands on the strong back of Turanthir. Maedhros lowered his hand and assisted her onto the horse before lifting himself up in front of her. He spoke softly to Turanthir and the steed obeyed the gentle Elvish words and set off at a trot. Maedhros directed Turanthir south, riding for the bridge over Thalos. Tinuthiel had great elegance and balance, but when Maedhros set his horse at a canter and then a gallop she had to hold onto him to stay on, not used to riding with another Elf on the same horse.

Turanthir's breath rose into the chilly spring air in plumes. The thundering of his hooves ceased when they approached the bridge. The village lay on the other side of the river, but Maedhros did not venture closer. He halted Turanthir and dismounted and Tinuthiel followed. The two Elves stood, and Maedhros stroked Turanthir's neck.

"My brother Caranthir," he said after a moment. "Sometimes he thinks with our father's will and not his heart. You have my apologies. You may go." Tinuthiel studied him for a moment, carefully. He went about checking over Turanthir for any battle wounds he may have overlooked. If so he would walk back to camp.

"You are not like your brothers, Maedhros," said Tinuthiel gently. Maedhros shot a look at her.

"And what do you know of my brothers?" he asked icily.

"I know them well enough to know that they would sell me as a prize," retorted Tinuthiel, and Maedhros growled and proceeded to smooth out Turanthir's mane, which had blown into a mess during their ride. "You are not like them."

"It is astonishing how untrue that statement is," said Maedhros dryly, finishing with Turanthir's mane. Tinuthiel shook her head, still gazing at him.

"I believe it is true," she said. Maedhros met her eyes once more. "Thank you for returning me, Maedhros, son of Feanor. Farewell." She spoke these last words formally and then with a bow turned and began to walk quietly across the bridge. Maedhros did not answer, but he watched her lovely form approach the village before mounting Turanthir and riding back to camp.