The Life and Times of Maedhros by MaedhrosFeanorian

Vanished in Blood

Years of the Sun, 506

What have we done?  Again the Oath drives us to madness.  Dior and his wife are dead, by our hands, along with most of his folk.  And for what?  A Silmaril.  Always, the cursed jewels of our father.  This time, though, we did not all emerge.  There are of us seven sons now only three.  Myself, Macalaurë, and the oldest of the Ambarussa.  Curufinwë, Tyelkormo, and Carnistir have fallen at the hands of our enemies.  Tyelko fell to Dior himself, while the others fell in less glorious battle.  I cannot say I am glad they have fallen, but at the same time, perhaps we remaining three will now be free of the cruel influences of our brothers.  Tyelko especially.  He consistently went against my counsel, and his strong persuasion often swayed even me.  While I spoke of restraint, he would whip the others into a fervor, and before I knew it, I would be overruled.  He once tried to take to wife Luthien Tinuviel, and only the treachery of his own hound stopped him.  He was always the most hasty of our brothers, and the least wise.  That does not mean I do not mourn him.  I remember in Valinor, when we were but children.  He was always the most mischievous, and once Carnistir and Curufinwë were born, they were a terrible threesome.  But they were still my brothers, and I loved them dearly.  When they were young, they would always trouble me with silly questions or subject me to a new prank before they tried it on someone else.  I feigned annoyance, but truly in my heart my love for them only grew.  Their antics were endearing, and their bright eyes, filled with the light of Valinor, sent shafts of joy through me at each new discovery.  When Carnistir and Tyelkormo were young, Atar taught them the beginnings of his craft.  As with myself and Macalaurë, they would often cause problems, but he would only roll his eyes and fix their mistakes.  Those were the early days.  When Curufinwë was born, he was so like Atar that we all wondered if he would share the same skill.  He did, and as soon as he was old enough, Atar began spending long hours with him in the forge, and the tokens they emerged with were always exquisite.  The more Curufinwë grew, the more it became apparent that he was almost a carbon copy of Atar.  He had the same quick wit and temper, and the same stubbornness.   Now the same fate.  Carnistir seemed to darken as he grew.  His childish wonder vanished, replaced by an almost constant sullen mood.  No small wonder he was called “the dark”.  When the darkness began creeping into Valinor, those three were Atar’s most staunch supporters, leaping into whatever campaigns he created for them.  They shared his ambition, but also his flaws.  They did not think before they acted, and they did not care to understand others, only master them.  The three of us left were among those who hearkened more to Amil, and learned to understand.  Perhaps that is why we are still here.  Perhaps not.  In the end, we all followed Atar, and it has led us here.  I only pray the road ahead will not lead into deeper darkness.

Maitimo Fëanorian