Chapter 23 – Lost Souls
Dior was a beautiful man – a unique blending of the Firstborn, the Usurpers and the Maiar. Even lying there, with his organs spilled upon the ground, I could not help but find him beautiful. His right hand clutched the sword that had claimed my brother's life. Celegorm lay but a few paces to the right of him. Curufin and Caranthir were also nearby, amid the bodies of Dior's faithful who had slain them.
I remember the numbness that came upon me when I found them, these corpses who once had been my kin. I loved my brothers, truly, but I knew they deserved their fates – and I deserved worse – for holding my tongue, for failing to stay them, and for joining them on this terrible quest. I chose to honor the Oath and this was where it led me – no Silmaril and three brothers dead. I wanted to lie down beside them, but I could not allow myself rest. For even as I watched Maedhros sink to his knees beside Celegorm, I knew the madness would rise again.
Middle Earth
Doriath
First Age 506
Celegorm's body was placed in the ground mere hours before his lieutenants came before Maedhros and his remaining brothers. They had received word of their beloved lord's fate, and in retribution, had abandoned Dior's young sons to die in the wilderness. If they had thought this news would please the princes of the Noldor they were mistaken, for Maedhros' wrath was terrible. He drew his sword and slaughtered the guilty before they could draw another breath. Neither Maglor nor the Ambarussa could have stopped him, had they even the will to make the attempt. Maglor, for his part, watched the execution of Celegorm's servants with indifference. He had seen and caused too much death that day to feel anymore. But as Maedhros began to pace the room like a caged beast – he knew the worst might be yet to come. Maglor sent his younger brothers from the room to deal with their warriors while he dealt with Maedhros as only he could.
"Brother, you must calm down."
But Maedhros did not heed him. He continued to pace the length of the room muttering as he had on occasions past. Only now and again did he speak loudly enough for his words to be understood. Maglor had no idea to whom he spoke. Maedhros had at times taken to arguing with himself, their father's ghost, Manwë or Morgoth. At the moment it seemed he spoke to himself.
Maglor tried again. "Maedhros. Please, put down your sword." He would not approach his brother when the ellon was in such a state, not while he was armed.
This time he was heard and wild eyes met Maglor's. There was confusion for a moment before that gaze lowered to the sword and further to the bodies on the floor. He dropped his weapon and it clanged when it hit the floor.
"I killed them."
Maglor knew it was not Celegorm's warriors Maedhros spoke of, despite the fact he gazed in their direction. Before he could utter a false word of comfort, Maedhros spoke again.
"Celegorm was afraid of the dark. Do you think he's still afraid?"
Maglor never knew where Maedhros' troubled mind would lead him but he had learned early on that it was best to stay with him and draw him slowly back to the present. It took a moment before Maglor understood his brother's question. Celegorm? Their younger brother had gotten himself locked in a closet once as a babe. Darkness had been a terror to him long after, but that was millennia ago. "No. He's not afraid of the dark anymore."
"Nor of Caranthir…"
Dark Caranthir. He and Celegorm never did get along. And when Caranthir was stirred to fury Celegorm would ever back down. But it did not matter anymore... "Maedhros."
"He was too much like father. No surprise, really, to follow him. They were too much alike."
Curufin and father. Yes, they were too much alike. It had been so from the moment he was born. But now was not the time… "You did not kill our brothers," said Maglor. "They chose their own fates." Maglor had meant these words to calm Maedhros, but instead they stirred his rage.
"No!" he shouted. "He chose our fates. He planned it … as you said. I had plans. I had plans!" Maedhros shouted at their father as if he stood before them, but his anger turned quickly to despair. His eyes lowered to his hands. He had scrubbed them clean, but the stain they bore could not so easily be washed away. "Not like this," he whispered. "Not like this…"
"Brother, look at me," he said more forcefully.
Maedhros looked up and met his eyes. "I killed them," said Maedhros, "our children, their children."
"Dior's sons are not dead," said Maglor. "They are out there, in the forest."
Maedhros clutched desperately at the hope his brother's words offered him. "We must find them. Bring them home. Keep them safe."
"We will," said Maglor, "but we must act quickly."
Maedhros ordered a search for the sons of Dior, but having killed those responsible for abandoning them, there was no way to know where to concentrate their efforts. They searched many miles from the city in all directions – to no avail. The days stretched into weeks and as time passed their hopes of finding the children alive faded. But despite this terrible truth, Maedhros refused to abandon Menegroth. Finding the children had become an obsession, as if Maedhros believed all that had happened in Doriath could be undone if only he could make Dior's sons safe.
Maglor's fear grew as the days passed. He feared the children would never be found and that the last threads of Maedhros' sanity would snap. And so he rode farther and longer than the others in search of Dior's sons and in so doing Maedhros' obsession became his own. He had to find them, or else learn that they were safe – or he might lose Maedhros, too, to their cursed oath.
Twenty days following the sacking of Menegroth a blanket of snow covered the forest floor, and it was bitterly cold, even by the measure of the elves. On that morning, Maglor rode forth with the Ambarussa. Young Amrod and Amras had taken to accompanying their brother on his long rides from the city. They rarely spoke, for what was there to say? All three knew the search to be hopeless, but still they pressed on.
Maglor drove his horse forward and down the slope to the banks of the Esgalduin. The edges of the river were frozen and the snow drifted higher than a man. He rode westward along the river. He tried to ignore the silent presence of his brothers who rode along behind him on the ridge. Maglor had never hated Amrod and Amras' company before, but he did now. Every time he looked upon them he could see them as they once were – innocent children. He could remember every laugh, every smile upon those sweet, angelic faces. It sickened him to think that at this very moment two small children, so similar to those from his memories, were lost in the wilds somewhere. But even worse was the knowledge that those responsible included the ellyn riding with him – those happy children from his memories. And deep down Maglor knew that nothing would ever bring them back – not the children who rode by his side, nor the children they searched for now. They were all dead, murdered by the same oath sworn in Valinor long ago.
Maglor knew he sought only their corpses now, or some word that they had been taken south by the Sindar. But there would be no word, for the elves of Menegroth had fled. There was nothing in Doriath now but snow and wind…
A flash of red upon the ridge caught his eye.
It was too bright, too vibrant for a midwinter's day. He swung his right leg over the saddle and a moment later he was climbing the hill. And there, in a small shelter formed by the roots of a great tree, his search was ended. The red he had spied was the lining of a tiny cloak, caught by the breeze that passed over it. And beneath the cloak … beneath it lay the lifeless forms of two small children. They were nestled close holding each other tight. Their eyes were closed. Their black hair sparkled with frost. Their skin was blue and unnaturally pale. It was a sight at once monstrous and beautiful. Serene. He could not take his eyes off them nor could he bring himself to approach. They could have been carved from marble except that no elf would create so terrible an image in stone. These children were no statues. They were real – and they were dead.
Maglor tried desperately to push the last thought aside. These bodies were just that – bodies, shells – their owners had long departed. They were at peace now, the sons of Dior. They were safe, despite the frost upon their faces, despite the wind that danced through their hair.
"Maglor!" Amrod called down to him from the top of the ridge. He and Amras dismounted and climbed down to see what it was their brother had found. They were not prepared for it. The children looked peaceful, as if they had only lain down to sleep, locked in an embrace of comfort and love.
"You slept thus when you were young," said Maglor. "Do you remember?"
Amras did not answer, but certainly, he did.
"Valar," Amrod whispered, but whether the word was meant as a prayer or a curse, Maglor knew not. "How could Celegorm's warriors have abandoned them so?"
Maglor shook his head in anger. "Do not lay the blame on others," he snapped. "We did this. All of us." A long silence followed Maglor's statement.
It was broken only when Amras asked, "What do we do now?"
Maglor sighed deeply and said, "We pray they find warmth in Namo's arms."
"And Maedhros?" said Amrod. "What do we tell him?"
"Nothing," said Maglor. "We tell him nothing."
"But…"
"Go," Maglor commanded. "Prepare your armies. We are leaving."
"But Maedhros?" Amras pressed.
"I will take care of him," Maglor said.
Amrod and Amras shared a look of concern before returning their attention to the children lying in the snow. "We will help you bury them," said Amras.
But Maglor shook his head. "No," he said. "I will do it. Go now. I will follow shortly."
Amrod and Amras left him, but it was awhile before Maglor returned to his horse. Lashed to the side of his saddle was a small shovel. He had carried it with him for two weeks and though he had prayed constantly he would have no need for it, in his heart he knew he would. He found a spot of earth that was not blocked off by the roots of trees and drove the shovel into the hard ground. It was not easy, but an all consuming anger powered his force and so the grave was soon deep and wide enough for two. But that was the easy part. It was so much harder to touch them, to lift their tiny bodies which weighed practically nothing and carry them to the grave. He carried them together, still clinging to each other, partly due to the horror he felt at the thought of prying them apart, and partly out of a wish to preserve them as they had been found. He lined the grave with his own cloak and wrapped the bodies as if for bed for he could not easily find the strength to cover their faces. He began to sing, softly at first. It was a song of grief and mourning written long ago before the Noldor came out of the West. He had written the lament after Alqualondë, for the children left dead there, but he had never found the will to sing it. There was no need. It was a song he had buried deep in his heart along with his pain and the tears he might have shed. But this time, for the sons of Dior he sang his lament. And he wept.
Maglor had not once challenged his brother's orders since they arrived in Doriath, for it was not his nature to speak openly of his thoughts until the need was great or he saw someone he cared for straying. It was a useful skill – silence. Long ago he had learned its power, for those who hold their tongue are heeded when they finally offer counsel. Maglor found his brother sitting alone in Dior's chambers with a fire that had almost burnt itself out. Ghostly shadows danced on the walls giving the room a terrible air. Even more terrible was the sight of Maedhros, with his face half lit by the firey light. He sat staring into the fire and seemed not to notice Maglor was there.
"It is time to leave Menegroth," said Maglor.
"Not until they are found," Maedhros replied. His voice was weary but firm. He too had ridden many miles in search of Dior's sons. He had ridden so hard and so long without thought of food or water or the bitter cold. No rest he took, and no rest for his horse either, which soon died from ill treatment in the children's pursuit. Maedhros sat now instead, awaiting each report. Maglor had taken to delivering them after more than one messenger had failed to escape this room unscathed.
"They will not be found, brother," said Maglor. "They are long gone from this place."
"You cannot know that!" Maedhros shouted.
But Maglor remained calm. "I tell you, they were taken away by the Sindar who fled south or by some wood elves who wander free."
"But if they are lost…"
"We would have found some sign of them if they were here. A footprint, a scrap of cloth … but there is nothing and two children alone could not evade our trackers. They have fled with the others."
"Do you really think so?"
Maedhros sounded desperate, as if the fate of the world rested on what answer his brother might give. "I tell you," said Maglor, with all the conviction he could muster, "they are at this very moment cradled in loving arms, safe from harm. I would stake my life on it." And he could, for it was not a lie. But there was no need to tell Maedhros that it was Dior and Nimloth who cradled them now or that the warmth surrounding them came from the fires of Mandos' Halls.
When Maedhros remained silent, Maglor crouched beside the chair where he sat. He pressed again. "Maedhros, we must leave this place. There is no telling what Dior's allies are planning. We must retreat to safety. Let us depart."
A long silence followed. It seemed to Maglor that his brother's thoughts warred with themselves, but slowly Maedhros came around. "Yes …," he whispered. "Yes. We must go now."
Relief washed over him. "I will tell the Ambarussa," said Maglor. He rose and then he headed for the door. He looked back before pulling on the handle. "We will visit our brothers' graves one last time."
Maedhros, staring off into the darkness, nodded once. "Yes. We should do that … say goodbye."
Maglor left Maedhros in darkness to find his youngest brothers waiting for him in the hall. They followed on his heels as he led them away from Dior's chamber.
"What did you tell him?" whispered Amrod.
"What he needed to hear."
"You lied?" Amras said, aghast.
"He will never forgive you," said Amrod.
Maglor halted in his tracks and turned swiftly to face his brothers, fixing them with a meaningful glare. "He will never have to. He will never know. Swear it – now."
The Ambarussa shared a look. They cared not for deception, but they knew in their hearts that hiding the truth from Maedhros was the only thing they could do. "We swear."
Maglor's face softened measurably. He laid one hand on each of his brothers' shoulders. "Good," he said. "Now spread the word. We leave tonight."
