A First and a Keeper

"Um, hi, are you Merrill?" The barefaced stranger asked.

Merrill nodded, too shy to say anything.

"Oh. Good. I'm Lanaya. I'm Zathrien's new First." The elf continued.

"Zathrien? Immortal Zathrien? Is he teaching you how to extend your life? What's the secret? Oh, wait, you probably aren't allowed to tell me." Merrill trailed off, embarrassed.

Lanaya laughed. "It hasn't really come up yet, but if it does I'll let you know."

"Thanks." Merrill muttered. "What clan are you from, you know, originally?"

She hadn't been mentioned by Keeper Marethari before today so she must be new, which means she can't have been from the clan. She's too old.

Wait, what if she was one of those mages who weren't found until much later in life. Eldgar'nan damn her, she'd put her foot in her mouth again.

"Sorry! I shouldn't have assumed!" She wailed. "I didn't mean to say that you aren't part of your clan, I just assumed you were too old to have come from your own clan! Please don't yell at me!"

Lanaya stared in shock for a few long minutes then she shook her head. "No! It's fine, I know it's a little weird, but I don't really know the gods yet, so I'm still choosing my Vallaslin."

Merrill's face fell even further, and Lanaya's words petered out. For too long the two stood in silence. Merrill was just wondering whether it was too soon to head back to her Keeper and avoid all further conversation when the other First spoke again.

"Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let's start again. Hi, I'm Lanaya, Zathrien's new First. You're Merrill right." She extends her hand.

Merrill reaches back and shakes it. "Yes, I am. Um, what are you learning right now?"

Lanaya's eyes brightened up immensely. Merrill didn't know this, but she was the other girl's first Dalish friend.

When Merrill first heard what Lanaya had done, she'd been overcome by all consuming, boiling rage. Nelyafinwë had stalled her, and the rage had faded, but that just ended the boiling.

What she feels now is a cold, determined fury. She isn't going to rush into anything, but she is going to deal with this, personally. She had to; it was her fault.

The sounds of her escort crashing through the forest sound far too loud in her ears. She'd tried to convince Nelyafinwë that they'd only be in the way, but he'd been worried about a sudden attack to kidnap her.

She hates that she couldn't refute that it was a possibility.

Finally she reaches the rock that kind of looked like Elenwe, maybe an hour ahead of the time in her challenge. This was the place she'd told her former friend to meet her. Only time will tell if she'll show. The First of the Sabrae settles down to wait.

"Should we search for an ambush?" Paloma, the human in charge of her guards asks.

"Do whatever you think is best." Merrill replies offhandedly.

The guard spreads out in pairs, moving cautiously around the clearing. Merrill ignores them, staring into the distance, waiting.

Finally, the sun is directly overhead, and Lanaya arrives. She's brought a small escort, maybe ten warriors, and Merrill can see her pause when she notices Nelyafinwë's guards.

Merrill's rage bubbles at the confirmation that he'd been right about what she might do. "Did you think I'd come alone?"

"I had assumed that this matter would be settled as friends." Lanaya answered. "Or were you lying in your note?"

"I don't know, are we friends?" Merrills asks.

"How can you ask that?" Lanaya yells. "I'm trying to help you!"

"By kidnapping me?" Merrill snarls.

"I wanted to get you away from that monster! Can't you see he's manipulating you, trying to turn you against your own kind!?" Lanaya protests.

"My own kind!?" Merrill shrieks. "You attacked a noble of Ferelden! You nearly started a war! A war that would have seen my clan cut down beside your own!"

"I wasn't going to kill him!" Lanaya snaps back. "I just needed to study him, figure out how he's doing what he's doing. It'd have been fine; it would have been weeks before anyone even noticed he was missing."

"Unless he escaped." Merrill says, low and dangerous. "Which he did."

Lanaya smiles bitterly at Merrill. "Why Merrill, you sound like you don't trust him. I thought you said he was trying to help us, so it's fine."

Merrill remembers the feeling of ice cold rage that suffused the room when Nelyafinwë heard about this 'Maeglin', and she remembers the grim tale of the 'kinslayings'.

"You don't know him like I do." She says quietly.

"I think that you know as well as I do that he isn't what he claims to be." Lanaya replies.

Merrill cannot help herself, she begins to laugh. Everyone looks at her, partly in confusion but mostly in concern. She's aware that her laughter sounds more than a little unhinged and is perhaps more hysterical than amused. She can't help it though, the only other thing she might do is throw herself at Lanaya and try to physically claw out her eyes. She likes to think she's more dignified than that.

"Actually." She says, as her laughter dies. "I find him entirely too honest. I'm not sure how many more times my entire understanding of the world can be upended before I genuinely go insane."

Something about her reaction has clearly broken through Lanaya's anger, and the Keeper is now looking at Merrill with more concern than self-righteous anger.

"Merrill, I understand what it's like." She says softly. "Zathrien was the same way. It seemed like he knew so much, and I felt like I was just a blind child. But that doesn't mean he's managed to do the impossible."

Merrill met Lanaya's gaze with a glare, and recited, "Nai kotumo ar nilmo, kalima Vala thauza ar poika, Moringothonna Elda ar Maiya ar Apanóna, Endóressë Atan sin únóna."

Lanaya raises an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

"No." Merrill replies. "In face, strictly speaking neither do I. I know what the whole thing means, but the individual words are a mystery. So too are words like Morgoth, Nelyafinwë, Nandëo, Oia Lumë, or Alavélë. Yet, Nelyafinwë uses them like words."

"So he made up a language to prove his lie, what does that prove?" Lanaya asks condescendingly.

"If he made it up, why does he default to it?" Merrill asks with a snarl. "Why is it he yell hutëan tyë instead of a swear word? When he struggles to explain himself, why does he use this made up language? Why was the first thing he did upon meeting me an attempt to teach me this made up language!?"

Lanaya flinches as Merrill's voice rises to a shout.

Undeterred, Merrill continues. "That's right, did you forget that I was the one who found him? I watched him appear in a flash of green light, and it was me who went out to get him and bring him back to the clan. This isn't some grand scheme or a con, I watched him learn our language, I asked him about his home when he no way of knowing what I would believe or not."

"All that proves is that he's a foreigner." Lanaya snaps back. "It would hardly be a surprise that someone in a new circumstance might make up any lie to prevent people thinking he's an abomination, and if he's as brilliant as you seem to think then he'd surely be able to keep it up even as he found out more about the world."

"Are you even listening to yourself!" Merrill yells. "You sound like Xandar! Making up theories and wild conspiracies to avoid facing the fact that I, who have spent nearly a year with Nelyafinwë might know a little bit more about him then you do!"

The accusation off balances Lanaya, once again breaking the shell of anger that has so far consumed her. This is the moment when, if Merrill had the right words, she could be convinced to relent on this mad crusade of hers.

Unfortunately, Merrill is too caught up in her own fury to notice. "Because Valar forbid that someone know more than the ever wise Keeper Lanaya."

Hurt flashes across Lanaya's face and she snarls back, "I see there really is no helping you. So willing to blindly follow a shem into damnation no matter how people try to warn you. Fine. You get your wish, I'm not going to take you with me, stay with the liar and enjoy your time in his bed."

Lanaya turns to leave the warriors looking slightly awkward, unsure of what to do. With a shrug they turn to follow their keeper.

Which means they miss Merrill's tattoos glowing green and the bolt of lightning that flashes past Lanaya.

The Keeper jerks back, a barrier flickering into existence as she whirls to face the First.

"Where are you going Lanaya." Merrill says with a voice filled with quiet menace. "We aren't done here."

Lanaya glares, magic gathering about her. "I don't think we have anything to say to each other."

"No." Merrill agrees. "But I didn't really expect words to do anything. I always expected this to end up with you in an iron cage."

The sun shines bright in the sky. There is barely a cloud to be seen, a mercy for a land on the verge of winter. The temperature is extremely pleasant, it is an ideal autumn day, one where children might play in fallen leaves, and adults smile at the harvest results.

In on glade within the forest, thunder deafens and lightning blinds the warriors who are backing away from a fight they cannot intervene in. On one side stands a Dalish Keeper, a figure of gruesome legend, said to wield forbidden magics that are too dangerous even for apostates. On the other, a Dalish First, the next in line for the same position.

Human legends are wrong obviously, yet the two are still disturbingly evenly matched.

Lanaya's barrier absorbs the sudden lightning strike and she replies with roots tearing up through the ground, trying to impale Merrill through her legs. Fortunately, Merrill's barrier wards them off.

"Nature's Vengeance Lanaya?" Merrill roars incredulously. "That could have hit your own side!"

"They were well outside the area of effect." Lanaya responds smugly. "Besides, it wasn't aimed at you."

Merrill looses a cone of frost at the Keeper as a distraction, and glances behind her. She hasn't heard any screams of pain, but she can clearly see that some of the warriors sent with her have been snared by the roots. However, the others are busily cutting them free and overall their armour seems to have gone a certain way towards preventing too much damage.

Merrill deflects a stone fist with a wall of earth and snarls. "They have nothing to do with this."

"If you're going to be a Keeper Merrill, you have to learn to think not just about the present but also the future." Lanaya lectures.

"Quoting Zathrien now?" Merrill sneers. "How hypocritical."

Now it is Lanaya's turn to snarl. Merrill responds with more lightning.

Lanaya does not respond the way Merrill expects her to. Instead of reinforcing her barrier or raising a stone wall, she instead plants her staff in the ground as plants start to grow. Even as she does so earth begins to creep up her body, until she resembles more a statue than an elf.

'One With Nature's not supposed to do that.' Merrill thinks briefly.

Then a thick roots slams into her, throwing her backwards.

"Urrgh." Merrill grunts, wind briefly knocked out of her. "Thornblades? Really?"

Lanaya does not respond, immobilised by the spell and sealed in by the earth over her skin.

Honestly, she's somewhat disappointed by Lanaya's showing. It's all pretty standard keeper stuff, things she's faced before, so it should be easy enough to counter. The only thing she doesn't recognise is that earthen flesh.

For just a moment she feels sad, there would have been a time when Lanaya would have shared all her breakthroughs with Merrill and they'd have written endless letters discussing how such things could be used.

The sorrow is suddenly drowned under a deluge of renewed anger. Whatever Lanaya has done, she's clearly been keeping this secret for longer than this fight between them. It seems that Lanaya gave up on their friendship faster than Merrill.

Typical counters to earth based defences are cold and piercing strikes. An icicle grows rapidly in her hand, then shoots off towards her former friend. As she does so, another root knocks her back again, which is annoying.

She manages to catch herself rather than falling prone, and thus gets to survey the damage her spell has done. As designed, the icicle stabbed into the dirt and then exploded into a freezing effect. The earth has cracked and receded, but not to reveal skin but wood.

Merrill freezes, as she sees roots growing up through the earth, making a second shell that provides a handy counter to the weaknesses of the first. Then another root hits her again.

The First screams as she feels something inside her snap with a flare of intense pain. By the time she manages to focus her blurring eyes again, there is another root coming for her.

She throws up an emergency barrier, panicking internally. She just doesn't have time to think. Roots have a weakness to fire and slashing, earth to ice and piercing, could she try blunt force.

Another root strikes her, knocking her off her feet and disrupting her train of thought.

She can't do this. She's going to lose.

No!

Fury and desperation fill her, as they did that day in the Deep Roads. Her tattoos glow fiercely, tinting the roots around her green. She raises her hand, heedless of the strike against her barrier.

"BLIZZARD!" She screams.

Freezing winds whip up out of nowhere, crashing down into the roots and the ground. Behind Lanaya her warriors freeze in place, snared by the power of the spell. Even the roots slow, but Lanaya herself is unaffected.

Panic tries to raise its head once more, but Merrill is too angry to feel it. Instead she casts her mind around for some way to make the ice colder, to wither plant and crack earth.

A note emerges from her mouth.

Merrill understands very little about songs of power, and in particular the relationship they have to emotion and intent. She wanted the blizzard to be colder and thought she might achieve a tiny increase by adding another source.

Instead, she recreates the biting chill of the Helcaraxe.

Frankly it is fortunate that she cannot sustain the magical output of her spell and the full might of a song of power for long, or everyone in the glade might have perished. As it is, the warriors of Endatauëo are left with sixteen Dalish imprisoned in thick ice, and one unconscious mage.

The Traitor of Gondolin

The king has summoned you to a meeting in Denerim. Loghaine made sure you knew that attendance was not optional. It is fortunate then that you already have business in the city.

Maeglin.

The arch-traitor of Gondolin. A servant of the darkness. The only Noldorin prince to bow to the Enemy. The black blade. Cousin lover. The darkened elf.

Orundómës hooves thud against the ground.

Maeglin.

Any other elf would have been preferable. A Sinda from Doriath? Acceptable, if unreliable. Dior himself? That particular reunion was inevitable, and you would not shirk from it. Arafinwë in a wig? Amusing and useful, once you finished lambasting him for abandoning you all.

Even Thingol himself would have been preferable.

But no, it was Maeglin.

Thud, thud, thud.

You were disappointed that it was not your brothers, certainly. However, that would not have brought about the wrath you now feel. You would have been disappointed, certainly, sorrowed too, but not furious.

Maeglin.

Other elves had served the Dark Lord, you understood better than most the crushing weight of his presence, and he had needed you alive. As much as you loathed those who turned traitor in general, you acknowledged that it was perhaps inevitable. How long had they dwelt in Angband under the care of Morgoth and his servants? Even an elda has their breaking point eventually.

Maeglin had not been away long enough for anyone to notice.

Thud, thud, thud.

An hour? A day? Maybe a week if you were generous.

You can no longer tell if the thudding noise is Orundómë's hooves, or the blood in your ears.

Denerim is a city filled to the brim with people. Banners flying from towers inform all and sundry that every noble in Ferelden is here, and their retinues with them. Despite this, you have no trouble moving through the city, as human and elf alike flee your path.

You enter the Dark Moth trading company and ask to see Maeglin.

"I'm sorry sir, you need an appointment." The vacuous woman replies. "I can get you in sometime this afternoon if it's urgent."

You turn your head to the door, behind which all sound has ceased. "Is that his office?"

"Sir, you can't go in there without an appointment." The woman says.

You are already turning away, ignoring her words. You stalk over to the door. Then, you raise your foot and slam it into the wood.

The door was not locked and it slams back on its hinges. Maeglin leaps back from where he was listening, hand twitching to Anguirel, torn between flight and fight.

You have no such hesitation.

His cloak is seized by your right hand, and he is dragged up onto his toes. You lean down until you are staring into his eyes.

"Traitor." You state, voice like ice.

"Maedhros…" He begins.

"You are not permitted to speak!" You snap. "Turgon took you in when you had nothing, and this is how you repay him?"

"I had no choice!" He snaps back. "You don't know what it was like! You cannot imagine the power of the Dark Lord!"

The laugh starts in your shoulders, then runs down your chest, before coming back up and out of your mouth. Distantly you hear cries of 'Security!' but you ignore them.

"Thirty years!" You roar. "Thirty years I hung upon Thrangodrim! Do you think there were no offers? That Morgoth left me there, well fed and healthy, and cared not for what I might do?"

His eyes flick to your right hand then back up and he swallows nervously.

"Tell me Maeglin." You whisper. "What did he promise you? What was the price you deemed worth more than loyalty, honour or the love of your people?"

Rage surges forward in Maeglin's eyes and he bats your hand away, lunging for his sword.

He is met by the tip of your blade.

"You were watching the wrong hand." You note with dark amusement.

"You won't." He says defiantly. "You won't make yourself a kinslayer again."

To your shame, you consider it. In a silence that is just long enough to make the traitor sweat, you envision it. It would be so easy, just a push and he would be dead, another servant of the enemy purged from this land.

Sadly, he is Elda, and you may yet have use of him.

"Perhaps not." You state, calm slowly returning. "Yet there is much I could do that you would survive."

"I would fight." He says.

"You would lose." You reply.

Defiance, desperation, fear, regret and so many other emotions flash through Maeglin's face. Suddenly his eyes flick past you to the door and he forcibly stills his face. Too slow to conceal the glint of calculation in his eyes.

"Well then. What now?" He asks.

"Now? Now Maeglin it is time for some long delayed judgement." You state.

"You have no authority here." Maeglin spits.

"Do you deny that I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor?" You ask.

"Obviously not." Maeglin's eyes continue flicking behind you.

"Then you cannot deny that I am the eldest of House Finwë currently present, the most senior prince by age and service. Finally, you cannot deny that I am one of the aggrieved parties." You list calmly, seemingly ignorant of the sounds of two large, armoured men walking towards the pair of you.

"There has been no trial, nor do you have any evidence." Maeglin replies.

You raise an eyebrow. "Evidence? A trial? Maeglin, your treason is known to all the Noldor, Sindar, Edain and everyone else who dwelt in Beleriand. Did you think you could duel Tuor in sight of all who fled Gondolin and none would mark your face? Or did you believe you had slain Ëarandil and that he would not carry word of the man who tried to carry him and his mother away? You are guilty, there is no defence that you could mount."

"You do not understand!" Maeglin yells. "I had no choice!"

"You had a duty!" You roar. "You had a debt! Turgon took you in when you had nothing, he raised you high and named you a prince of our people! How did you repay him, Maeglin? When his city burned around him and your own warriors turned against you, did you heed that duty, that debt? No. You left him to die and slew the last of the great kingdoms of the Noldor. What excuse could you possibly have?"

The sounds behind you pause, and you see Maeglin flinch,

You lean in close and ask, "Tell me Maeglin, how do you answer Turgon's blood? What do say you to Ecthelion, dead in the very square of the king, slain by Gothmog himself? What of Glorfindel, slain defending those who fled the destruction you wrought upon their home? What say you to the Gondolindrim, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead before the Gate of Steel?"

Maeglin looks behind you and snaps. "What are you waiting for? Throw him out!"

"Traitor." You state quietly, as the two humans behind you shuffle back and forth. "Oathbreaker. Kinslayer."

Maeglin snarls at you. "You know nothing of me."

You could probably come up with some argument that would make him listen. If there is any Noldo who could reach Maeglin, it would likely be you. Who else knows what captivity is like, and none save you have ever escaped once he had them in his grasp. Yet, you do not do so.

Part of it is anger, that you do not believe that Maeglin is worth, but the greater part is the keen awareness that your time is running short, that the two behind you are overcoming their hesitation and will soon intervene.

"The sentence would normally be exile." You state calmly. "Little though it would mean in this world we find ourselves in. Fortunately for both of us, the darkness grows in the south once more and we find ourselves in desperate need of long swords to face it."

Maeglin's face goes pale. "Mor… He's here? The Enemy?"

You shrug. "That much is unclear. It is certainly some breed of the same darkness; the locals call it a Blight. You can ask around, they will be more than willing to describe them to you."

Maeglin's fear does not flee but it does lessen. "The weapons… The food. Ferelden is going to war."

"Indeed it is." You agree placidly. "And you will be going with them. That is your sentence. To fight the enemy, as you should have fought in Gondolin."

Maeglin sneers. "Why should I fight for humans? Let the Dark Lord have them."

You tap your sword against your leg. "Why do you think you have a choice in this matter?"

Your cloak swirls behind you as you turn on your heel. The two who stood behind you are revealed to be some of the local elves. They are bedecked from head to toe in plates of steel, that you do not even need to extend your senses to notice the magic that practically radiates off them.

You smile at them and prepare to leave, saying, "Farewell Maeglin, prepare yourself well. I will notify the king that you volunteered and return to inform you of the date and time of our assembly."

"One moment Maedhros." Maeglin says, voice cold. "It seems to me that there is another option."

With a sigh you turn back. "I suspect I already know what you are going to say, but for the sake of form, pray tell what is that alternate option?"

"I could kill you here and now." He snarls.

"With what army exactly?" You ask.

He snaps his fingers and points at you. "Hevora, Allyn, attack."

You do not even try to hold in the sigh the traitor's words cause. All he had to do was nothing and you would already have been gone. Instead, you are going to have to explain why exactly these two should ignore the son of Eöl and likely humiliate him in the process.

You truly hope you do not have to maim the elf himself; he is, if you recall correctly, a decent swordself, and Anguirel was famed for a reason. Admittedly, you are the living demonstration that a maiming can be conducive to learning, but you do not think you have the time for Maeglin to relearn.

"Are you truly intending to oppose me Maeglin?" You ask tiredly. "I have no doubt you have invested significantly into equipping them, but do you really believe they have the skill to kill me?"

Maeglin's grin is an ugly thing. "Perhaps not, but do you have the stomach for it, kinslayer?"

Your eyes narrow, and your anger at Maeglin surges. However, you have not survived this long by being that easy to rile up. Meaglin clearly hoped to goad you into a rage that would provide him a justification and to steady the wavering hearts of his guards.

"Did you really think such a mild insult would get a rise out of me, traitor?" You ask mildly. "Or do you hope that reminding yourself that I slew kin with my blade rather than by setting others upon them would assuage your guilt?"

Maeglin draws Anguirel. "What are you two waiting for?!"

The two elves exchange a nervous glance. They came here to remove someone who was making a fuss, now they are being ordered to commit a murder. It is not impossible that they can convince themselves that they are justified, and Maeglin is not an unskilled leader. However, for now they are hesitating.

"Boss, that doesn't seem necessary. I mean, can't we just escort him out?" The male, Allyn you assume, asks.

"Did you not hear him threaten me? Do you believe this will end here?" Maeglin asks, the room darkening as he calls forth his inner strength. "We must strike now or he will return, this time with greater violence!"

Well, if that is how he wants to play it.

The Light of Valinor floods the room. While you cannot be certain how you appear to the others, it reveals new sides of the other occupants. The Light strips away the attempts of the two elves to remain stoic, and their fear becomes obvious. Trapped in the midst of a conflict between beings as far beyond their understanding as spirits, their nerve has already all but failed them.

Maeglin however, is much more affected. Naturally, he is afraid, but that has always been true. Now however, his desperation is much clearer. It hangs over the room almost like a smell, his eyes gleam feverishly, and his face is even more drawn and pale than it already is.

You turn your attention to the elves and speak quietly. "Hevora, Allyn. If you intend to attack me do so. I will not judge you hostile until you do so. I would prefer to spare you though."

You meet Hevora, the female elf's eyes. "It would be a shame to slay a friend of one of my own, I dread to carry the news of your demise to Delora."

The female elf's hand flinches away from her swords. "You… you're that Nelyafinwë?"

You nod and turn to Allyn, whose eyes are now wide with fear. "Allyn… How is your new daughter? Did she get over that cough you were worried about?"

The reminder, or perhaps the mere fact you know so much of them, finally breaks their nerve. They drop their weapons and flee deeper into the building. You hope they do not struggle to find employment after this.

Maeglin is looking much less confident now that he stands alone.

"Well, I suppose this concludes our business." You state mildly, turning back towards the door.

The whistle of a blade through the air, makes you sigh as you twist aside. Maeglin overbalances, clearly having put as much strength into the swing as possible to try and cleave your mail. By the time he has recovered his balance he is staring down your sword.

"Peneneth[1]." He whispers, gulping in fear.

"My sword has no name." You reply coldly. "Now place Anguirel on the ground."

You see the calculation in his eyes and intensify your presence as much as possible.

"Do not do it!" You hiss.

Slowly, defiantly, the son of the dark elf places his father's blade on the ground.

"To think, that the son of one so worthy would be so pathetic." You say, shaking your head.

"You never even met my father!" Maeglin spits.

"I did not speak of Eöl." You reply evenly. "I spoke of Írissë. That is Aredhel, your mother. She possessed tenfold the courage you lack."

"You leave her out of this!" Maeglin roars, cutting himself as he pushes forward towards you.

"For the first time I am glad she has passed." You spit back. "That she might be spared the knowledge of what the son she died to save became!"

Maeglin rocks back as though struck by a hammer blow. His stares at you, eyes no longer following your movement. You sigh and sheathe your sword.

"I apologise for the disruption." You say to the woman at the front desk.

When the door closes behind you, Maeglin is still staring at the place you once stood.

[1] Technically this is i macil peneneth (lit, the sword without name). It's not a name so much as a description, but as time wore on people started to just call it Peneneth for ease. Then legend and story started to intrude. Now, as far as most of the Sindarin speaking world is concerned, Maedhros' sword is called Peneneth or Necessë and he's being darkly comedic when he says 'my sword has no name' and it's taken as some grand statement about the pointlessness of naming tools.