It was a piece of parchment, a little discoloured, with neat writings on it: black against yellow, in both Runes and Tengwar.
Again, he read it silently.
'To Dior Eluchíl, son of Lúthien and Beren, Heir of Elu Thingol.'
The young ruler of Doriath rose from his seat. Neither an Elf nor a Man, Dior Aranel Eluchíl inherited his mother's unparalleled beauty and his father's weathered eyes, and the fates of the Firstborn and the Followers were woven seamlessly into him, forming a peculiar yet unique charm.
In the great hall, below the dais, his people were waiting nervously, so he gave them a comforting smile. 'It is what we have long expected, nothing more.'
Yes, they had expected it ever since he returned to Menegroth: a 'request' the initiator thought the recipient had no right to refuse.
A murmur broke from the crowd. However prepared they were for this day, no one could stay indifferent when it actually came. Standing in front of the High Seat, Dior surveyed their faces: some looked angry, some anxious, some resigned, while most seemed afraid.
Maybe we do have a reason to be afraid, he sighed in his mind. As of now, the reputation of the Sons of Fëanor had become far from decent among the Grey Elves: they were formidable warriors capable of murder and treason, and two of them even openly threatened to destroy Doriath last time their demand of the Great Jewel was rejected.
But there was more to consider. In these dark days, one could not simply hope to stay safe by avoiding immediate danger.
'I will not assent to their request.' After the murmurs died away, Dior announced. 'I will not surrender the Jewel to them.'
A silence fell, and everyone looked up at him regardless of the formality.
'I am called Eluchíl,' he continued, voice calm yet firm. 'I will live up to my grandfather's name.'
The mentioning of his grandfather, the late King of Doriath, transformed them. One by one, they bowed to him, as if before them were not a Half-elven who had seen less than fifty season changes. And when they straightened again, there was no more fear on their faces. They were truly prepared.
That is what we are. Once we choose a path, we will commit to it with all we have. My father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother, my people: that is what we are. The Noldor are not the only people who know pride and dignity, nor is an exile the only way to demonstrate courage.
Afterwards, he walked through a corridor that led away from the center, listening to his own footsteps echoing between the glimmering walls. Those who designed and built the splendid city had departed, and the walls had been once stained by blood and steel, but Menegroth stood, with its mystery, grandeur and pride undiminished. In the silence of the night, the history of a kingdom accumulated over thousands of years surrounded him, embracing and comforting him, until he was nearly overwhelmed by a tide of emotions and lost in the ensuing thoughts.
Strolling in the passages of Thousand Caves, Dior pondered.
He touched the Nauglamír again where the Silmaril was set. The Silmarils: the only surviving seeds of the purest Light born before the Sun and the Moon, a token of the highest beauty in Arda Marred. In its radiance, he saw his mother again: Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So many times she sang under the starlit sky on Tol Galen, her voice soft and fair, her smile sad but content, while the Silmaril rested on her chest like the brightest star. At her side sat Beren Erchamion, always listening to her attentively, hand gently holding her hand, the once dark hair touched with winter's grey, and the mortal face marked by the relentless years. After going through numerous perils and griefs they were rewarded with a brief time of peace, after which they took an unknown road together that led them beyond the Circles of the World.
He remembered those nights and the sound of water from afar, so vividly that he could not but feel an ache deep in his heart.
How can I surrender the Jewel that carries such precious memories to the hands of those who have never bled to win it? How can I allow my grandfather's kingdom to succumb to the threats of the ruthless, unrepentant murderers?
It is true that the Sons of Fëanor have sworn to take the Silmarils back; but they are not even the maker of what they claim to be theirs and theirs only. And what have they done to fulfill their oath? Have they aided King Felagund and my father in the Quest? Have they gone through dangers beyond imagination and faced the terrors of Angband? Have they managed to access the Iron Crown of the Enemy? And have they died for the Jewel, relinquished their fates as the Firstborn, returned from the dead, and doomed to taste mortality in the end?
They have no true claim on it.
'My lord.' A voice came from behind.
He stopped. Turning back, he saw his wife. Silvery hair glimmering in the golden candle light, she looked young and fair, although she had seen many more springs and winters than he. Their twin sons, Eluréd and Elurín, were with her, little hands tugging at her long, white skirt.
'Nimloth.' He called her and held out his hand to her. When she put her hand into his, he was surprised. 'Your hand is cold.'
She said no words, but he saw conflict and reluctance in her eyes. Intertwining his fingers gently with hers, he pulled her closer. 'What is it?'
Looking into his eyes, she leaned on him and sighed before speaking. 'I know they are also Elves, and they are not as powerful as they appear. But,' she hesitated a little. 'Is that the only way? Do we have other choices?'
To that, he simply smiled. 'Trust me, my love.'
Just then a vision emerged, completely uninvited: the blood-stained Silmaril, set on the Dwarven necklace of Nauglamír, in the left hand of his father. Against the thick, cruel crimson, its radiance and beauty seemed to be even more striking. As the hand dipped it into running water, the color of blood was diluted, and the vision faded away.
He was confused for a moment, and it was again her voice that called him back to reality. For the first time since he came to Menegroth, he found the night here dark and cold.
Fortunately, the confusion was only temporary. Shaking his head slightly, he readied himself.
It is decided.
They want an answer, but I will not give it to them, for I will not give them anything they demand of me.
Except for war.