The room was silent. The faint drip of the nenilúmë was barely audible, yet each drop fell with the weight of a distant bell tolling in the deep.
Sunlight, caught between the waning days of summer and the first breath of autumn, streamed through the lattice windows. It wove a pale golden haze that broke into shimmering strands, spreading like a net across every corner of the chamber. The lingering coolness of the night clung to the air, mingling with the gentle warmth of the sun, creating a quiet tension just beneath the surface. A few motes of dust drifted lazily in the golden beams, their movement so subtle it might escape all but the most watchful eye—even one as keen as that of the Eldar.
At one end of the long table sat Maedhros, his face half-obscured in shadow, the other half illuminated by the sunlight. His chiseled features were sharp and striking, like a marble sculpture shaped by the skillful hands of their mother. To his right was Maglor, whose silence rendered him almost indistinguishable from an ordinary figure—his greatness as a minstrel concealed in the stillness, with only a faint flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. Across from him, Caranthir sat with barely contained impatience, his lips pressed into a tight line. Beside him, Amrod gazed at Maedhros, his expression a perfect mirror of Amras—two statues identical, save for the differing hues of their hair.
Celegorm sat opposite Maglor, his outward demeanor as cold and unyielding as the stone walls of Himring had once been. Yet within, a voice mocked him relentlessly, a bitter laugh that spared no one seated here—not even himself.
Least of all you, my eldest brother.
He lowered his gaze to his hands. They were the hands of a Noldo—long and dexterous, folded together in a pose of deceptive tranquility. How ironic, he thought. Who would guess they had once been stained with blood?
The blood of kin… It is what it is. And you, Maitimo, surely realized this truth far earlier than I.
Maedhros' voice, calm and measured, broke the silence. "A month ago, I sent a message to Dior Eluchíl, making our demands clear."
He paused briefly before continuing, his tone unchanging. "As of now, we have received no reply."
After a moment, Maglor spoke, his voice quiet yet firm. "Perhaps we should wait a while longer. The heavy rains of recent days may have delayed the messenger."
"Are you jesting?" Caranthir snapped. "By now, even if the messenger swam the entire way, they would have arrived!"
"Perhaps Dior needs time to consider," Maglor replied evenly. "Perhaps he will surrender the Silmaril. Surely he knows it would benefit both sides."
"And you truly believe that?" Caranthir shot back, his voice cutting. "How long do you propose we wait? Until that Half-elven dies of old age? Lucky for you, at least, that he is mortal."
Maedhros' sharp gaze silenced Caranthir momentarily, though not entirely. When Caranthir turned away with a scowl, Maedhros swept his eyes over each of his brothers in turn. "We sent the message to give Dior the choice. Words, if chosen carefully, can help him see our perspective."
A faint smile tugged at Celegorm's lips. Well done, my brother, he thought wryly. Frame a threat as negotiation. Shift the burden of choice to the other party. That way, future actions appear justified.
"And words may yet sway Dior," Curufin added quietly, his tone resolute. "After all, he is only mortal."
He caught the flicker of a frown on Caranthir's face and knew the contentious discussion from the previous day still lingered. As expected, Caranthir was the first to scoff. "Words? If they were so effective, why didn't they stop that golden-haired fool Orodreth from banishing you? Or save you from nearly being strangled by a mortal? Were your words not plentiful enough—or just not pretty enough?"
Before Curufin could respond, Caranthir slammed his fist on the table and rose abruptly. "Are we here to make a decision or to speculate endlessly, like a lovelorn maid pondering the thoughts of her suitor? Since when has the House of Fëanor ever been so hesitant?"
"If possible, we prefer to resolve this peacefully—" Maglor began, only to be cut off by Caranthir. "When has the House of Fëanor ever chosen peace as its solution?"
The time has come.
Celegorm laughed—a sudden, sharp sound that cut through the heated exchange. Every face turned toward him, startled. Even Curufin, seated beside him, looked momentarily stunned. Maedhros frowned, Maglor's lips parted as if to interject, and Amrod and Amras exchanged uneasy glances—one puzzled, the other apprehensive. Caranthir, frozen mid-motion, forgot to sit, his eyes fixed on him.
"Well said, Moryo," he said at last, his laughter fading into a wry smile. "When has the House of Fëanor ever sought peace deliberately? If that had been our goal, we would still be waiting idly on the far shores of the sea. And if peace were truly our way, tell me—why do all of us here bear blood on our hands?"
Caranthir sat down. Around the table, each brother's face shifted, the weight of Celegorm's words settling heavily upon them. The past—undeniable and inescapable—hung like a shadow between them. My dear brothers, Celegorm thought with bitter satisfaction, if need be, do you truly hesitate at the thought of spilling blood once more? What is the difference between one drop and two?
"Dior will not surrender the Silmaril. The son of that mortal fancies himself the heir of Thingol and believes that by matching the pride of his grandfather, he can restore the glory of Doriath. Yet the deeds of Thingol, I trust, none of you have forgotten: knowing full well that the Silmaril was ours by right, he demanded it as the price for his daughter's hand, and then he kept it for himself. He refused to aid us in the just war against the Enemy, denying us even the right to tread upon land preserved not by his own power, but by that of his wife."
Now he could feel their anger rising; for once again, he had spoken the truth. Thingol's disdain for the sons of Fëanor, kindled by the blood spilled at Alqualondë, remained unrelenting. He had forbidden even the tongue of the Noldor, casting it aside with his decree: "All such as use it shall be held as slayers of kin and betrayers of kin unrepentant."
Years of resentment, long buried, were now rising to the surface, while lingering doubts among them fell away like the last leaves before the onset of winter.
"Dior wears the Silmaril openly upon his breast, but by what right? He is not of the Noldor—he is not even of the Eldar. And yet he dares to flaunt it, no doubt thinking the House of Fëanor will do no more than utter hollow threats, unwilling to act. Let it be known: whosoever believes such folly and dares such defiance shall pay the price."
It had been long since he had spoken so freely, and though there was irony in his words, he could not deny the faint satisfaction they brought. Indeed, these words had been spoken far too many times before, yet if any wished to hear them again, he would not hesitate to oblige.
"The Silmaril is the work of our father's hands, and we swore an unbreakable oath to reclaim it. In Valinor, we chose this path of vengeance, and I see no reason to turn aside from it now. I say we prepare to march upon Doriath! Let them witness the resolve of the House of Fëanor: we do not falter, we do not turn back—not to the ends of the Earth, nor to the end of days!"
Silence followed, but it was no longer the oppressive silence of hesitation. A dangerous light flickered in the eyes of those seated around him, and even Maglor's lingering caution seemed to falter. Yet Maglor spoke at last, though his voice was quiet. "Should we not wait a little longer? Perhaps Dior will yet see reason—"
"Of course, dear brother," Celegorm replied mockingly, not bothering to meet Maglor's gaze. "We can wait as long as you like. Perhaps he will indeed make the wise choice, and no blood need be shed. Or, as I suspect, his blindness and stubbornness will only grow. Either way, time will dull his vigilance and ease our task." He turned his eyes to Maedhros, unblinking. "Fair enough, isn't it?"
Brother, I have spoken the words you would not. Now give me the answer I know you hold.
Once again, the suffocating silence returned. All eyes turned to Maedhros, now the eldest of the House of Fëanor. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cold and distant. "Then we wait until winter. If by then we receive no reply—"
The words hung unfinished as Celegorm's blade flashed. A dagger now stood quivering in the wood of the table, its hilt trembling from the force of the throw. Slowly, a smile spread across Turkafinwë Tyelkormo's handsome face, poised and deliberate, like a predator surveying its prey.
"That will be your answer."
nenilúmë: Quenya, "water clock". I made it up.