XLIX.

It was a belated confession, in truth, superfluous now. They had all seen. There could be no doubt now, no hope of the like he had foolishly harboured.

This rendered the tale slightly, only slightly, easier to relay (there was still - he had been their king, and he had left them, and forgotten them) and so Maglor relayed, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the frame of his harp.

'And you left,' said Amrod, after a while.

'Yes.'

'With but a shallow cut in your neck.'

'Yes.'

'And you returned to us, unharmed.'

'Yes.'

Silence.

'I do not understand.'

L.

It was easy (too easy), once he had begun; and they screamed at mere sight of him, soon enough.

It was –

Why not? Why not hurt them, even if it was not them he wanted to hurt, in truth; yet they were still elves, they dared remain elves, here, in that place, and for that alone-

– enticing, beguiling, thrilling.

And some of them knew, and called to him, and begged, and cursed, and wailed, but it was not him (any more) they were calling to, and he snarled in anger, and hurt them for it, more, and more still.

Pathetic.

LI.

Then there was the art of reshaping.

Which was not the same as remaking; these captives were being not so much unmade as relentlessly twisted, not so much picked apart as grinded whole, not so much coerced as bluntly consumed.

These were not worth the effort (not as he had been); and so they ended up warped, deformed parodies (not as he had done); and he could tell himself, watching them, that he had not been reduced to this, that had retained more – enough (little enough) to yield the remains.

(Then there was this sickening fear that he would yet-)

LII.

Of course, there was more to this awaiting.

There were different uses he could be put to, he was informed.

Training the soldiers (the thralls, the slaves already broken, all of them the same, almost, almost the same as him), in combat as well as in obedience (a lesson learnt well).

Scouting, at times; watching, from behind a veil of shadow.

And more.

And more.

'Come, elfling,' said Mairon, who had once been a Maia of Aule; his voice distinctly derisive, countenance smug. 'You will be forging weapons under my supervision. I understand your teacher had been no mere smith.'

LIII.

No mere smith indeed.

The hands, despite having been broken and reshaped, remembered.

The skill, never tremendous, yet deeply ingrained, took over.

The memory, for all it had been shredded and blurred and buried, surfaced.

Barely recognisable, painfully vivid; he ignored it (even as it guided his arms, fingers, flashed in his vision).

This, too, was an act of destruction, not of creation (never of creation); the work of his (forced) hands, meant to devastate and be devastated (never to be cherished, never truly appreciated), was slowly, steadily, wrecking something which should have died long ago.

Simply one more betrayal.

LIV.

Amrod was restless; and he had thought he craved rest, craved peace, yet it was becoming apparent that peace – if they were at peace, even – or peace within the family – if there was – did not entail closure.

Not for Amrod (whose dreams were of fires, and charred skin, mixed with horns, and shadows); and certainly not for Maglor, whom he had followed (alone, where was he to go?)

He would seek refuge in the woods (hunting, he would say); yet the woods' quiet felt oppressive (this close) and offered neither comfort nor forgetfulness.

It was comprehension Amrod sought, relentlessly, instead.