"For the sons of Feanor that yet lived came down suddenly upon the exiles of Gondolin and the remnant of Doriath, and destroyed them. In that battle some of their people stood aside, and some few rebelled and were slain upon the other part aiding Elwing against their own lords (for such was the sorrow and confusion in the hearts of the Eldar in those days)."

Maglor

Though the clamor of battle still filtered in from the street, inside the house was quiet.

Amrod used his sword to poke at a curtain of rough-weave cloth that had been torn from the ceiling. "I thought you gave orders that the three of us were to be the first to enter. Us – you know, you and me and Amras."

Maglor swallowed and peered cautiously around a corner, gripping his sword. "I did. Maedhros did."

Maglor saw a body clad in Feanorian armor slumped below a window. In case there was still a chance of life, he crept across the floor to examine the elf in closer detail. He let out a sigh of regret. An arrow had lodged itself into the elf's upper left back almost up to the nock, too deep for there to have been any chance of survival. The elf was long dead. The fletching was stained with blood, and Maglor rubbed it absentmindedly between his fingers for a moment as he pondered where else Elwing and her family could have fled.

The friction of his hands had revealed the color of the feathers underneath, a striking blue and yellow like a summer sun reflecting off shallow waters.

Maglor froze.

Across the room, Amrod met his older brother's eyes.

Maglor grasped his sword again. "Something is very wrong."

From the street outside Maglor heard the crash of sword against shield. The familiar voice of Tamblin, one of Maglor's captains, rang out frantically ordering his soldiers to cluster into an arrow's point. There was a grumble of wheels as he heard a cart being hastily overturned, and Tamblin's shout of "Get behind, quickly." Tamblin's commands were cut short by the unmistakable boom of a trebuchet's load colliding with its target.

That was wrong, too. Resourceful as Earendil's people may have been, there was no chance that a settlement of refugees would have had the resources to build elaborate siege weaponry, nor would they have had time to obtain any from neighboring allies on such short notice.

"Amrod, where are Amras' forces right now?"

Amrod had noticed the colors of the arrow as well. The color leached from his face. "I wasn't sure before, but I am now. He and his company must have gone off on their own."

"By the houses with Rhochanar?" Maglor demanded.

"I don't – that was an hour ago – "

"Find him and bring him in line."

"Yes. How? How do I stop him when – "

"Our men are dying." Maglor stood up, his pulse racing.

Amrod hesitated, then raced out of Earendil's house. Maglor heard him calling out to his men as Amrod stepped out of the gate. Alone, Maglor flew up the stairs. Maglor the bard ached to follow after Amrod and help talk some sense into their youngest brother. Maglor the general kept to his post.

The stains which had dappled the carpet below were more widespread up here. Abandoning caution in favor of haste, Maglor combed his way through the rooms upstairs. He dropped to the floor to peer below beds and pawed through wardrobes, frantic for what he was looking for yet desperate not to find it.

Ready to search a poky bedroom near the seaward end of the house, he first flung open the closet door and abruptly stopped. Maglor's hands gripped the doorframe hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

The peredhil lay softly curled around each other on the floor of the closet like seedlings struggling to overcome the last winter chill. Maglor tried not to focus on the colors that bloomed across the rough-spun green linen of their tunics. The part of him that had seen too many battles, a part of him which Maglor wished he didn't have, noted the absence of bloating or even bugs on a hot day like this. Maglor had evidently arrived too late, but by less than an hour.

He could hear a clamor in the street outside as metal collided against metal, but his eyes remained fixed on the small faces and their unnatural stillness. It was strange. They looked less human than he'd expected. If no one had told him they were Elwing's, he would have mistaken them for full elven.

He inhaled sharply and turned his face away. Examining them as if they were specimens in a philosopher's study. A wave of sudden shame flowed up through him. Turning away from that closet, he cast his gaze around the room for a sign of their deceased mother.

A bed was sitting slightly askew, as if it had been hastily pulled away from the wall and then put back. Maglor's eyes narrowed. With a grunt of effort, the bed was pushed away again and Maglor saw the little wooden box. Someone had taken the time to carve it with the image of dozens of twisting tree branches, and to polish it until the wood gleamed in the afternoon light. It had been cast carelessly onto the floor, and Maglor could make out the imprint in the crushed grey velvet, an indentation about the size of his fist.

Maglor's stomach dropped. The sound of military chaos outside had turned to shouts, and a lone wail started low and rose in pitch until it turned into a scream. Maglor threw the box to the floor. Ignoring the battle out there, and ignoring the boys still tucked away in that closet in their imitation of sleep, Maglor's feet thundered down the stairs.

His captain Tamblin stood just inside the entryway, nervously gripping his sword. Maglor hastily fastened his helmet again as he walked to the doorway. He knew, now, that Elwing would not be in this house. As Tamblin opened his mouth to speak, Maglor cut him off.

"I need to find Maedhros."