Chapter Eighteen: Hidden Fires

"Oh, did I say 'baggage'?" Maedhros corrected himself quickly. "I meant another guest. We found her when we were coming back from our little trip. Poor thing… she was lost, alone and nearly dead when we found her. But she hasn't spoken one word in all the time we've known her. That's why we named her Wenúbeth."

Elrond mutely translated the name in his head: 'Maiden of No Words'. It definitely suited her, however sad it was.

"Is she to be treated as a guest or a captive?" he asked, reluctantly dredging up memories of his first week in Maedhros' custody.

"Oh, a guest, certainly," the redhead replied offhandedly. "I was wondering whether you might be willing to look after her, as you've done such a good job taking care of things in the absence of Maglor and I."

Elrond nodded. "It would be a pleasure."

He didn't add how he had felt strangely connected to the elleth from the moment he had laid eyes on her. And the ache in his head had not subsided in the least.

----

Even for days afterward, neither Maedhros nor Maglor would tell anyone where they had gone for two weeks. Dozens of questions boiled ceaselessly in Elrond's mind. Where had the brothers journeyed? What did they travel there for? Where had they found Wenúbeth?

Wenúbeth. That strange, silent elleth. Maglor regarded her as the guest she was supposed to be, but on more than one occasion Elrond had had to forcibly prevent Maedhros from treating her like someone lower than the meanest slave. It was made even more atrocious to him when the half-elf overheard a conversation between the sons of Fëanor that night.

"I don't know why we even brought her here," the red-haired elf snarled. "Just one more mouth to feed, that's all she is."

"She is a living being," Maglor sighed. "And she should be treated as such."

"Then you do that," Maedhros snapped. "She's not my responsibility."

"No, you shrugged that off as quickly as possible," muttered Maglor. "Do you know what your problem is, brother? You've been so wrapped up in lies and thievery that you don't know how to show mercy anymore. It was your idea to go out searching for the other two Silmarils. 'Steal them from Eönwë's camp,' you said. 'It'll be a piece of cake compared to Sirion.' I doubt you even gave a thought to what could happen."

"Nothing happened," Maedhros retorted. "We're both fine."

"We are thieves, Maedhros!" Maglor cried. "The curse of Mandos is upon us! Something has to happen!"

"Well, you be sure to let me know if it does," said Maedhros curtly.

"Oh, it will," Maglor told him, in a voice of abrupt venomous quiet. "Believe me, it will."

He buried his hand in his cloak and drew it out again; he now held a small, cloth-wrapped bundle with two conspicuous bulges to it. When he shifted it slightly, the contents clinked softly together.

Slowly, and with the utmost caution, Maglor pulled at the top fold of fabric with his free hand. The bundle was opened in a sudden burst of light.

Two perfect jewels lay in the elf's palm; they looked like large, many-faceted diamonds; but they couldn't have been. No diamonds had ever gleamed with their own pure, silver-gold radiance. No diamonds were ever so unsullied. No… these were not mere diamonds. They were the Silmarils.

Maedhros stared down at the jewels, his face bathed in their light. An uncanny gleam was in his eyes, of hunger, malice and lust. He reached his hand out slowly, barely harnessing his greed. Maglor did nothing to prevent him from taking them.

But something else did.

In the very instant Maedhros' fingertips brushed the nearest Silmaril, he let out a yell of pain. When he jerked his hand back, a thin wisp of smoke and an acrid stench lingered in the air. It was coming from the elf's own skin. The fingertips that had touched the jewel's crystal surface were burnt raw, and blood was trickling slowly down to Maedhros' wrist. The elf cringed, fighting back tears of anguish.

"You see?" Maglor whispered, concealing the jewels again. "We cannot keep them. Their fire will burn us if we try to touch them. We are cursed, Maedhros. Nothing can redeem us of our evil ways. Accept that."

Maedhros' upper lip curled into an ugly snarl. "Get rid of them, then! Cast them into the Sea. Bury them in the earth. I don't care how. Just rid us of them!"

Elrond had heard more than enough. He slipped away on silent feet, his mind reeling with this new notion of thievery and doom.

----

They stole the Silmarils. They stole the Silmarils. They stole the Silmarils. From the herald of Manwë! How treacherous can an elf get?

Elrond's mind boiled with furious thoughts as he made his way through the house toward his bedroom. Maedhros and Maglor had stolen the two most valuable things in Arda, for their own benefit alone. And Maedhros had been burned by the jewels… that had to mean something.

Of course. He remembered now. In all the tales he had ever heard of the Silmarils, they had burned the hands of their holders only if that person had had evil in his heart. And to all apparent purposes, Maedhros fit the bill perfectly.

Elrond halted in his tracks and spun on his heel, heading back the way he had come. He and the sons of Fëanor were going to have a little talk, right now.

But the next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, tangled in his own arms and legs, as well as those of a familiar dark-haired elleth, who was muttering agitatedly, "Forgive me, sir, I should have been watching where I was going…"

"That's quite all right," Elrond replied, as they both carefully extricated themselves from each other's limbs. "I wasn't being very observant either."

She suddenly stared at him. "Are you the one they call Eärendil?"

"Yes," Elrond nodded. "That's what they call me."

But suddenly he frowned in confusion. "Wenúbeth?"

The elleth looked embarrassedly down at her feet. "Yes."

"You can speak," the half-elf realized. "Maedhros told me you were a mute. That's why he named you Wenúbeth."

The girl snorted in contempt. "No words for him. Not the one-handed. He never wanted to bring me here; that was Maglor's idea alone. I can see the darkness in Maedhros' soul. Everything's black. Black like earth… that's how he treated me. Like dirt, and worse."

"I heard Maedhros and Maglor talking," Elrond told her. "Maglor spoke up for you."

"Then he seems good, at least," Wenúbeth nodded. "I know he thinks well of you."

"Maedhros seemed to as well," Elrond muttered. "Up until a few minutes ago."

"What happened?" Wenúbeth asked.

Elrond sighed. "Maedhros and Maglor stole something of great value from the herald of Manwë. Two things, actually."

"Silmarils?"

"Yes," the elf-lord nodded.

"And did they burn?" Wenúbeth hissed maliciously. "Was there fire and blood?"

"Maedhros was burned, but Maglor never touched them," Elrond replied, shying slightly back from the girl. "I think he was afraid."

"Fear can drive an elf to madness," said the elleth matter-of-factly.

"Maedhros is the mad one," the half-elf replied bitterly. "Maglor was sensible. He didn't want to steal the Silmarils, but Maedhros persuaded him with his cunning."

Wenúbeth scoffed. "That snake. I don't want anything to do with him."

"Then you had best turn and walk away in the other direction," said Elrond calmly. "You were headed straight for his bedchamber."

"So were you."

"I had meant to have a talk with them," the half-elf replied. "But I'm not sure if I want to now."

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Wenúbeth bobbed Elrond a curtsy. "I had best get back to my duties, sir. If you'll excuse me…"

She moved softly past him as she strode away. Her hair blew out a little behind her, the ends brushing his tunic and leaving thin brownish smears. Elrond frowned down at them, then called after the retreating girl. "Wait."

She turned back, a slight frown on her face. "Yes?"

Elrond took a few steps toward her, saying, "With due respect, I think you should really consider washing your hair."

"I have never been shown such conveniences here," Wenúbeth replied.

"Then it's about time someone did show them to you," said Elrond. "Follow me, please."

Elrond led the elleth to a room on the other side of the house, furnished with many basins on pedestals that served as sinks. A few bottles of liquid stood side-by-side at each, next to pitchers of water.

Elrond walked over to the nearest stand, which was just high enough for him to work at. A stool stood in front of the pedestal; Wenúbeth seated herself uncertainly, leaning back as the elf-lord bade her.

Elrond gently gathered the girl's hair in his hands and let it fall into the basin. He wet her grimy locks with clean water from the ewer, then reached out for a bottle. It contained some type of soap in liquid form. The half-elf dispensed it into his hand, rubbing the stuff gently into Wenúbeth's hair from roots to ends. Then he rinsed away the resulting frothy lather with more water.

"There," he smiled. "Much better."

He handed the elleth a clean towel, which she used to wipe her hair dry. Her locks were revealed to be a dull, mousy brown when she was finished. Elrond frowned slightly as he walked around her. Something still didn't feel quite right.

Wenúbeth was examining her hair as well as Elrond, twisting a long, wavy lock between her fingers. Her blue eyes were narrowed slightly, as if she were in deep thought.

"This is different," she muttered. "It was different before. My hair, I mean."

"Different?" Elrond inquired, his pulse beating much faster now. "Different how? When exactly is 'before'?"

"Before I came here," Wenúbeth replied, still staring at her hair. "Before I left Sirion."

"Sirion!" Elrond cried. "You came from Sirion?"

"Yes," the girl nodded. "I was a servant there." She lifted her eyes to look into his face. "I remember you, too. They call you Eärendil here, but I don't think…"

She frowned, and suddenly gasped in shock. "But… it can't be!"

"What can't be?"

"I know you!" Wenúbeth exclaimed. "You're not Eärendil, you're… Lord Elrond!"

"Yes," Elrond told her, his pulse racing. "Yes! It's me! But who are you?"

"I was different," Wenúbeth said feverishly. Her voice was rising in excitement. "My hair was different, a different color. It used to be brighter… bright orange."

Elrond began to sob in joy, tears running down his face as he smiled. He threw his arms around her, whispering elatedly into her ear.

"I knew there was something about you… ever since I first saw you! Even before I knew your name, I knew you… Caranel!"