"There they beheld suddenly a dark figure standing high upon a rock that looked down upon the shore … Then all halted and stood still, and from end to end of the hosts of the Noldor the voice was heard speaking the curse and prophecy which is called the Prophecy of the North, and the Doom of the Noldor.

' … Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death' s shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Ea, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.'"

Maedhros

The gate that had controlled access into Sirion lay shattered into pieces, and a battering ram sat abandoned on the turf nearby. That was normal, of course, for a battle. What was also normal were the soldiers from both sides lying unmoving, clustered around it in various tableaus. Maglor had just said … something strange, but Maedhros couldn't focus on it right now. In fact, it was imperative that he didn't focus on it. The last words he had said to Amrod and in turn, Amras, whispered in his ears, but the eyes of Maedhros' men bored into him as he dismounted from his horse and so Maedhros had to concentrate on more pressing matters.

The perfectly-normal pools of crimson made a sticking noise as Maedhros took a few steps into the town square. It felt different seeing it all in a town instead of a battlefield somewhere. Maedhros swallowed, because that was silent and therefore no one would notice it.

There was a figure in Sindarin armor, dead and crumpled on the cobblestones. Maedhros knelt beside it. Large hands lifted the helmet from the elf's face, gently, and brushed away a disordered lock of hair. He drew a sharp intake of breath and looked up at Maglor.

"Just a boy," Maglor mouthed soundlessly. He didn't look surprised. Maglor knelt beside his brother and the body.

Maedhros spoke quietly. "How many soldiers were in Earendil's army? Real soldiers, not schoolboys handed a sword and a suit of mail."

"Based on what I saw today? Not many. I imagine most of the real fighters perished in Doriath, or sacrificed themselves in Gondolin to help everyone else escape."

In the same way that ice creeps across a pond in winter, the realization of what exactly had transpired under Maedhros' command settled in his chest. His hand dropped away from the dead elf's face. "I thought we had trained better elves."

"We did train them," Maglor hissed quietly. "To fight on a battlefield, against Balrogs and orcs that would flay you alive if they ever got their hands on you. Not in homes, against townsfolk so scared witless that you can't get any sense from them."

Maedhros, still kneeling, gestured with his chin at the houses bordering the town square, with doors hanging open. "Still. Some of the soldiers did this."

"Our soldiers did this," Maglor growled. "On our orders. What will you do, Maedhros? Find every soldier that put a sword to an innocent elf today and hang them? What about the ones that watched? Conversely, let's reward integrity now. Those of our side who knew this was wrong, who rebelled and killed their comrades, killed Amrod, shall we bestow upon them honors? What about the officers, who never wielded the swords but gave orders to the ones who did? What should we do about them?"

All of this came out as a whisper. Maglor's shoulders trembled.

Maedhros, Maglor, and the fallen Sindarin elf were all still on the stones of the square, which was filled with the gentle susurration of hundreds of elves trying their hardest to be respectfully quiet. There were little clinks of armor as soldiers gently shifted their feet. Right now, as it had been almost every day of Maedhros' life, eyes were watching him.

Amras' eyes had watched him too this morning, hesitation flickering in them in his seat across the table from Maedhros. This is a town , Maedhros , not an army on some battlefield.

The boy lay between Maedhros and Maglor, the splash of color on his stomach revealing where someone's sword had pierced through his armor. A smattering of freckles painted his face like Varda's stars in the night sky.

Until they'd seen one in real life, people didn't know what a battle was like, not really. Maglor had his songs, and the Noldolante was so full of heartache that it made the sunlight hang in the air for a moment every time Maedhros heard it, but poetry didn't have the capacity to capture the sheer messiness of an entire legion of people engaging in what was essentially randomized surgery. This boy had probably grown up hearing songs of glory and daring deeds, much like Maedhros used to dream about when Feanor spoke of the unconquered lands in Middle-Earth. Then he had woken up this morning to the news that an enemy army was approaching the town, and here at last was a chance to be a real soldier.

A stab to the stomach, Maedhros knew, was not a pleasant way to die. It took longer than most people thought. No gentle slip away into Mandos' halls over the course of a few seconds, eyes closing at last in rest. This boy had probably knelt in pain in the middle of the fight, wondering why it was taking so long and what the burning in his loins was. Stomach acid, Maedhros thought, percolating through the hole in his belly. In the midst of all that strife, Maedhros doubted anyone had had the time to comfort the figure hunched over on the stones. Too weak to fight, but not too weak to piss himself with fear, while over the course of some agonizing minutes life gradually leached out of him.

These are the elves we rode out against.

Maedhros tried to breathe, which considering he'd been doing it for over seven hundred years, was surprisingly difficult. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath struggling to move past the last one like a mass of trout crowded at a narrow point in a stream.

Amrod, staring at the grass of the turf, and then sending Maedhros one last trusting look before riding off towards the gates of Sirion.

Out of sight down the street, someone was crying.

Each breath came faster now. Maedhros fought to keep it under control. He clenched his left fist against his leg so no one would see the way his fingers trembled.

._.

The winter chill had pierced him and his brothers when they buried Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin in the frost-marked earth of Doriath. A flush of anger rose when he touched Celegorm's burial shroud, but guilt came just as quickly to answer it.

Celegorm used to play "Beast in the Woods" with the twins when they were all young, back in Aman. Maedhros remembered Celegorm foisting one child in each arm when he caught them, then running off into the trees as Amrod and Amras shrieked in pretend terror and quickly, laughter. Once, caught up in the fun, a distracted Celegorm had accidentally smacked Amrod's head against a protruding branch as he raced along the path. Maedhros remembered the horror on Celegorm's face when he saw the small cut on Amrod's forehead. Maedhros had rolled his eyes at Celegorm for tearing a wide strip off his own shirt to bandage a wound less than half the length of his small finger.

Then Maedhros had stood with Maglor, Amrod, and Amras in front of the shrouds, hoping the others thought it was just sorrow that made his shoulders shake and his breath shudder in his throat. It wasn't solely anger, either. He ached with longing to have his brother back, mostly so he could shove Celegorm and throw him out for letting Elured and Elurin die. But not completely. Killing children, Celegorm; that's low even for you.

._.

The open doors of the houses surrounding the square stared at Maedhros, yawning black holes that drank in the fading daylight.

"Maedhros?" whispered a voice, and to Maedhros' surprise it was outside his head. He looked up at Maglor's worried face.

Maedhros took a deep breath. "'Those who rebelled'?"

Maglor nodded.

"Where is Amras?"

Maglor shook his head helplessly. "If I knew, I would tell you. But Maedhros, you know that … " His voice trailed off.

"Yes." Maedhros thought for a moment. "Amrod isn't going anywhere?"

Maglor shook his head and smiled sadly.

Maglor's older brother nodded in comprehension. The high lord of the house of Feanor stood up.

He tried to focus. This was the aftermath of a battle, like – well, not quite like any other, but some things would always be the same. First, take care of the living. Next, take care of the dead.

He leaned towards Maglor. "Recognize any of your officers here?"

Maglor nodded. "Tamblin." He beckoned at a stocky elf who had been hovering by the gate.

Tamblin came forward and gave a curt bow to the two lords.

Maedhros addressed him. "The fighting is done now, yes?"

Tamblin nodded. "It should be."

"Good. Send the healers in. They're to treat everyone, whether Earendil's people, if they accept it, or ours. Assign some soldiers to guard them in case there are any more flare-ups."

Tamblin bowed again. "My lords," and walked off on his mission.

Maedhros snapped the fingers on his left hand as he thought. "Another officer … Where's Rhochanar?"

An elf that Maedhros vaguely recognized made his way through the press of soldiers and stepped forwards into the square. He looked around as if hoping someone else would speak instead. When no one did, he cleared his throat. "Dead, my lord. I was his second-in-command. Iarben, my lord."

Maedhros' jaw tightened. "Peace to him in Mandos' halls. Get some elves together, get started on the graves. For everyone today. The dead care not for our allegiances."