I Won't Bite by Agelast

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Chapter Three

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But Oropher could not keep quiet for long.

Soon enough, curious visitors came to take a peek at the stranger. Many of them were willing to speak to him. From them, Oropher learned much. He found that Lord Maedhros' brothers, who had met with such disgrace for their conduct in Nargothrond, had not sought (had not been encouraged to seek) refuge at the home of their eldest brother.

Instead, Curufin and Celegorm had sought shelter at Amon Ereb, their brother Caranthir's stronghold. Rumor told of Huan – having abandoning his master of many long years, he had followed Lúthien to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and had taken on many of the werewolves that gave that dreadful isle its name. Those he had not killed had scattered in all directions – frightened and homeless, but still deadly enough.

It was also told that Lúthien and Beren had not entirely been unsuccessful in their quest – that they both still lived.

Here, Oropher could indeed contribute something.

He stretched out as best as he could, hands resting in the back of his  head. His audience circled around him, consisting of scullery maids and guards, though some finer folk did see fit to join in, however discreetly.

“Oh yes, Lúthien is truly that beautiful,” he said expansively, as if he had seen her more than once or twice in his whole life. But he had eyes, as much as everyone else. And if his tastes did not exactly go in for nightingales and starry nights, there was still something about the princess that moved even her most determined detractors. (Not, of course, that she had many of those, nor that Oropher was one of these.)

Oropher paused for effect – not noticing that his audience had begun to scatter.

He sighed. “And she's even better in motion.”

“Ah, is she now? Perhaps that is why Morgoth needed a good lie-down after he witnessed her –“
There was a significant pause, as the sound of many feet made their way to the exit.

“Dance,” finished the voice.

Oropher, eyes half-closed, said lazily, “Listen, you rascal, I won't let you speak of the princess in that imprudent way.”

He then raised his eyes to glare at the speaker. But to his dismay, he found his gaze dragging upwards and upwards. His guest was unmistakable – after all, who else could be so absurdly tall, with hair as red as blood, and a cold haughty face and a manner that seemed capable of any sort of thing. His right arm was hidden in the folds of his cloak.

Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring, kinslayer and cursed, bowed slightly. “Of course you can claim an acquaintance with Lúthien of Doriath, a thing I could never do. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”

Oropher thought he should swallow his own tongue, or at least say anything other than what he did say. “Ah. Umm.”

He then coughed loudly, to hide his embarrassment. He also turned red as a beet-root, which did nothing to hide it at all.

Maedhros was not hideous. Indeed, quite the reverse.

The line between beauty and ugliness was a thin one, and Maedhros on the very knife-edge of it. Rumors had Maedhros Feanorion as very handsome, but rumors were rarely right, and so it was in this case. Perhaps, once, he had been unambiguously beautiful -- in the softness of youth, really, anything was possible -- but it was clear to see that time and circumstances had worked upon the eldest son of the late (unlamented, for the most part) Fëanor harshly. As in a crucible, they had burned away any softness and beauty and left only the most persistent bones and scared flesh upon his face, on his frame.

Violence marked him.

His nose had been broken at least two times, and gave the impression that it wished to go in two different directions at once. His face too bore faint scars, the origins of which did not bear thinking about.

His mouth was set in a grim line.

He did not look like he could be pleased by anything.

(Except he was smiling now, which could only mean that he was not above making fun of fellow sufferers...)

His eyes, a too-bright grey, were uncanny, like the eyes of the rest of the Exiles. But no, they were more uncanny than the rest, and Oropher had no doubt that things might --  and did – flee from his face.

And there was his (twice broken) nose and chin, still so arrogant and jutting, all pointed down at Oropher. Who tried again. “Er. Good evening. My lord.”

Maedhros gave him a look of polite interest, as if he had done something rather commonplace that nonetheless must be commented upon. “Perhaps I should come back later,” he said, though he made no move to leave.

Oropher had quite gotten over his shock by now (most importantly, he had stopped gaping) and so returned to the relative comfort of his most insolent stare. Of course, he knew that there were certain conventions that he ought to observe, as Maedhros' (nominal) guest. Well, he assumed that he was a guest and not a prisoner, his bed was much more comfortable than a straw-strewn stone floor, but one really never knew with this sort of people...

And because Oropher was nothing if not plainspoken, he started of at once.  “Tell me, Lord Maedhros, am I your prisoner here? I assume you have read what I was here to give you, and if you haven't, a close questioning of the men who brought me will doubtlessly clear things up on that account.”

No, it was a pity that the same conventions that assured his own safety also guaranteed Maedhros'. It would not do, after all, if he should leap upon Maedhros right at this moment (leaping quite high) and attack –

Well, Oropher would be swiftly overpowered – Maedhros was more than his match in strength and speed, and there were sure to be guards just outside the door. He was loyal to his king and to his kind, but he hoped that he was no fool.

Maedhros was speaking, as tranquil as one would like. “Of course you are not a prisoner, but my honored guest --”

Oropher could not quite disguise a snort, which Maedhros seemed not to hear. He went on as if he had not been interrupted. “As for your letters, I have received them, and they grieved me, truly. But I can do nothing for Thingol at the moment, I'm afraid.”

Forgetting that he was not supposed to know what was in the letters themselves, Oropher burst out. “Nothing for him! After the disgraceful way your brothers acted –!”

Maedhros' face darkened, but Oropher plunged on, heedless of danger before him. “They captured our princess, threatened her freedom – they sent your own kin into certain death! I say the last because I know the appeal of blood speaks more strongly to your kind than clear and simple justice!”

In a low voice that nonetheless was clear with every word, Maedhros said, “Do not presume to speak to me of justice! It is never simple, nor ever clear. I cannot help Thingol in locating his daughter for the reason that she is already in Doriath. As for my kind, yes, I bear the responsibility for them and their actions, this I cannot deny, nor  would I want to.”

But Oropher shook his head in wonderment. “Lúthien is back in Doriath?”

“Yes, and her lover too. It is all quite an extraordinary story, from what I have heard of it. Through not yet complete, it seems to me.”

The Silmaril, thought Oropher, they have not gotten the Silmaril! Now, it would be madness indeed to speak to a son of Fëanor about the Silmarils (especially if his temper was up, as Maedhros' clearly was), so Oropher took an uncomfortable refuge in blank looks and silence.

After a moment, Maedhros said, drily, “I can see that I have astonished you, Oropher of Doriath. You are free to go at any time that suits you. My only request is that you wait for your leg to heal, and I say this on the advice of Lady Síriel, whose judgment I have not yet had reason to doubt. But the decision lies with you.”

And Maedhros left Oropher then, sorely troubled, and completely astonished.