"Bring to me in your hand a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown; and then, if she will, Luthien may set her hand in yours. Then you shall have my jewel; and though the fate of Arda lie within the Silmarils, yet you shall hold me generous.'

Thus [Thingol] wrought the doom of Doriath, and was ensnared within the curse of Mandos."

Maedhros

Maedhros' men had long since fallen behind. The afternoon sun reflected off the tufts of seagrass littering their path, and off the ocean swells that crested and broke below at the base of the cliffs. As the distance between he and Elwing shortened, he could make out the way her cloak billowed off the back of her horse as she desperately dug her heels into its sides again.

He saw the dip in the earth before she did. It was a small channel in the rock, no larger than a brook, but Elwing's horse hit it hard and Maedhros watched as it tumbled over and Elwing spilled out onto the clifftop.

Here at last was the long-eluded breeze. Blades of seagrass rustled softly as Maedhros trotted up beside the struggling elfmaid.

It had been a nasty fall. Elwing's horse let out a high-pitched keen, one leg splayed at an unnatural angle. Elwing herself was struggling to get to her feet, and as Maedhros dismounted he noticed the uneven gait in her step, her right leg bearing much more weight than her left.

"That horse is done for," he told her. "It would be kinder to put it out of its misery."

"How long did you speak of kindness before you killed my brothers?" Elwing spat.

Maedhros knelt beside Elwing's stricken horse and drew his knife. The spew of blood that burst from its throat quickly subsided, and as the horse's head drooped Maedhros continued to talk. "Celegorm killed those boys, not me."

Elwing gave a puff of disbelief as she continued her futile limp away from him. "You are lord of the House of Feanor. Everything your men do, they do under your orders." Her white cloak shifted as she walked. The edge of the fabric moved and for a moment, Feanor's Silmaril cast flames over Maedhros' field of vision.

Maedhros froze with blood still slick across his hands, his knee on the grass. Elwing followed his gaze to the little shape shrouded under her cloak.

With deliberate slowness, Maedhros stood up. "You carry something that is not yours to take."

Elwing's hand came up to her cloak to clutch protectively at the jewel underneath. "I claim it as a weregild for my house. For the deaths of Dior, of Elured and Elurin."

The world was now reduced to the small weight hidden behind Elwin's white-clenched knuckles. "Thingol's hubris killed them, the moment he asked for a Silmaril as your grandmother's bride-price. He put a doom on his people for a treasure he never had any right to."

Elwing hissed in outrage. "You were the one who drew arms against Doriath. Not Thingol, not your wretched oath. Your men, on your orders, brought death into our halls and abandoned my brothers to starve in the woods."

Maedhros advanced towards the elfmaid. As if from far away, he saw the fear flicker in her eyes. "You talk of abandoning children? I searched for days for your brothers. Where are your sons right now, Elwing?"

Elwing stumbled backwards. Behind her on the cliff, incoming gusts from the ocean whipped around her hair and the wide eyes now staring up at Maedhros. Her hand still grasped against her cloak, as if hiding the Silmaril from sight would deter the eldest son of Feanor.

The wind was rising. As he cornered her on the edge of the rock, Maedhros struggled to be heard against the whistling now in his ears.

"Let me help you," he called out. "Let me keep my oath as Thingol kept his to Beren. There need be no more ill blood between the houses of Thingol and Feanor."

Elwing was quite pale now. Maedhros felt the thump of blood in his ears. In his mind he no longer heard the roar of the wind nor the crash of the surf below. Instead his breath seemed to resound throughout his skull, and as if by fate, Elwing let her hand drop to reveal his father's jewel.

Maedhros felt the air leave his lungs as he gazed for the first time in hundreds of years at the stone that was his birthright. Elwing's eyes watched him as he stared mesmerized at a radiance that needed no other light. Without thinking, a hand reached out to brush the air between the Silmaril and his fingertips.

Elwing stepped back. "This is all I have left of my family," she said quietly.

Maedhros' hand dropped. With the last of his strength, he forced himself to focus. He spoke hoarsely. "Come back with me to Sirion, and your boys. You can still save what is most precious to you."

He reached forward again to grab – her hand, is what he told himself.

It was the wrong move. Whether because of his words, or the hand he extended as he stood over her in his armor on that clifftop, Elwing locked his gaze. She and the Silmaril took a deliberate step backwards. Over the cliff, and into the foaming waters below.