and one man, in his time, plays many parts by Duilwen

---

ii.

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They’d rebuilt the conference room a little larger, with a roof of baked clay tiles. That had required a repurposing of the forges that horrified every metalworker in the settlement and would take far, far too long to do for every one of Maglor’s subjects. The water-damaged tapestries had been tucked carefully away in a chest; they were currently irrecoverable, but the future might bring better news. Some of the undamaged tapestries had grown mold and mildew while tucked in their chests, and were similarly irrecoverable. Decay, Maglor thought, was Moringotto’s cruelest invention.

The new room had space for shelves, and Celegorm had carved some elegant bookends, and the library was back on opulent display. Maglor’s seat was now backed with the sturdy, grey fabrics popular among the Þindar. 

Celegorm and Caranthir had ridden out to slaughter some horde of orcs that their scouts had reported were venturing daringly close to the settlement by the lake. It should be a trivial operation, but until they returned some part of Maglor’s mind would doubtless be composing their eulogies. They’d lost twenty people since the rainy season had ended, to accidents or well-aimed orcish arrows. Death, here, was swift and senseless.

Everything here was swift and senseless.

It was a clear, cold day; the stars were glittering. He was walking back from having rung the bells for evening when he heard their horses approaching. He turned around to meet them at the gates. The horses were approaching at a cruel pace, which was so unlike Celegorm that Maglor pulled up, surprised. If it was bad news – 

They came into view a second later, riding shoulder-to-shoulder at a full gallop, holding something between them. No, someone. Holding an orc between them, one hand bound to each of theirs, shrieking in agony each time one horse got half-a-stride out in front of the other.

“You idiots,” said Maglor once they were close enough to hear him, “he could drag you off your saddles.”

“His arms would come off first,” said Celegorm with a grim and startling satisfaction. “Your Grace-”

- and that really was something, because Celegorm never had bothered with that, even for Father, even for Finwë -

“Moringotto,” Caranthir finished the sentence grimly, “has an emissary for you.”

 The orc had pale, splotchy skin against which the bulging of its black veins was rather disconcerting. It was trembling violently, it kept opening and closing a mouth full of rotting teeth. The smell was overpowering. 

Several dozen people had crowded around to watch; others were pressing in behind them. Well, Maglor could play a king best in front of an audience anyway. 

 “Moringotto,” he said, “lacks the strength to face us in his own right, and lacks the honor to surrender, and lacks the wherewithal to flee. So he tries to do us harm by trickery. We acknowledge no emissary of his; we confess ourselves startled he is desperate or foolish enough to try the same trick twice.”  None of that had been addressed to the orc, but now he leaned down to face it. “Does he offer me a Silmaril?”

“No,” it snarled. “He offers your brother.”

 Celegorm and Caranthir tensed, but barely. They’d heard these words already, then. Maglor composed a silent reprimand for not giving him a little more warning. “All of my brothers are here,” he said.

“Wrong,” it growled. The rest had been in Sindarin but now it curled its lips to try at Quenya. “Nelyafinwë Maitimo – ”

“Is dead,” Maglor said. 

 “No,” said Morgoth’s emissary. “Though I imagine he wishes he were.”

Maglor straightened and took two steps back. Not enough, a thousand wouldn’t be enough, but – “Celegorm,” he said, “kill it.”

The creature cried out in dismay. It was talking – quite coherently, really, quite quickly, judging by the movement of the lips – but something was roaring in Maglor’s ears and he could not hear it. They’d never found a body. They’d thought it likely, even, that the Enemy had tortured him before his death. But that had been Years ago, and of course they’d drawn the only conclusion that could keep them sane.

 He’d meant for Celegorm to draw his sword, but instead he’d loosed the creature’s arm, reached for its head, and snapped its neck. It crumpled at Maglor’s feet. Maglor could feel his own lips moving, but his orders, too, he could not hear over the terrible pounding in his head. Caranthir let go of the carcass’s hand.

In death the orc looked less inhuman. Its muscles, slack, had softened. It could have been sleeping. Maglor turned and left and left a dozen guards clustered around it.

The conference room was dark. Maglor did not light a lamp.

“It could be a lie.” Curufin had chosen the seat farthest from his brothers, across the table, and was tapping out patterns on it with his fingernails.

“It could be the truth,” said Celegorm.

“Probably true, I think,” Caranthir said. “We know how Moringotto operates, taking Elves captive is the first thing he did, of course he would –” 

“We have yet to successfully predict Moringotto’s actions, even once,” Maglor said. “It’s a bit far to say that we know how he operates.”

“It costs him nothing to keep Maitimo alive, it’s consistent with his history-”

“He could rather trivially have proved it,” Curufin countered, “and he didn’t.”

“In fairness,” said Celegorm, “it’s possible the orc had more to say.” He was glaring at Maglor somewhat accusingly.

“If Moringotto wanted us to hear it, then we don’t want to hear it,” Maglor said flatly. “That’s simple. We can’t outsmart him at his game, yet, but we can refuse to play it-”

“And meanwhile Nelyo’s being tortured,” said Celegorm.

“Might be being tortured,” Curufin said.

“It doesn’t actually matter,” Maglor cut them off. “If we’d had reason to believe we could triumph against Moringotto, we’d already have attacked him. We have no new reason to believe we’d stand a chance. So we can’t attack him. And we can’t trust anything he’d offer in negotiations –”

“I thought you’d say that,” Celegorm said.

“Don’t interrupt me.”

 Celegorm looked as if he intended to, but Huan put his face in his lap and he thought better of it.

 “So it doesn’t matter if it’s a lie,” Maglor said. “Anything we do because of it would be exactly what Moringotto wants.”

“Well,” said Caranthir, “except, in one version Maitimo’s dead and in the other he’s possibly still alive, and whether or not we can do anything about that I’d say it matters.”

“Alive and being tortured,” Celegorm said, “if there’s something we could do to goad Moringotto into killing him –”

“That’s sick –”

Huan yelped sharply. “That would be right,” Celegorm said. “That would be the right thing to do.”

“Since when has anyone in this room cared about that?” Amrod asked mildly. 

“I think-” Maglor began, but Curufin cut him off.

“No. No. If you, my King, are going to keep letting that slide I am going to say something. Every member of this family is, and consistently has been, motivated by the desire to protect our subjects from danger, defeat Moringotto, and build a safe and healthy independent kingdom. With -” and he turned to look directly at Amrod – “one exception, who valued feeling like a good person over seeing those goods realized, and if off the back of his idiocy you are going to lord it over the rest of us that you, too, value feeling like a good person –”

 Celegorm lifted him off his feet. He’d moved quickly, while no one had been looking, with the startling grace that Maglor had made a mental note of earlier. He was holding him by the collar of his jacket. Curufin fell silent. 

“That was too far,” Celegorm said, breathing hard.

The jacket ripped; Curufin collapsed back into his chair. He’d only fallen a few inches. It had seemed, Maglor thought distantly, far more dramatic that that.

 Amrod’s hands, on the table, were bloodless and trembling violently.

 “Yes,” Maglor said, “yes, it was. I think –” 

This time Amrod interrupted him. “Did you know?”

Curufin raised one eyebrow. 

“Did you know he was on a ship?”

 The leaks in the roof had long since been patched, but Maglor thought that he could still hear water dripping.

“No,” Curufin said, “of course not.”

 “Would you have stopped-”

“Father would have.”

“If Father didn’t?”

 Curufin leaned back. “You don’t understand our father at all, do you?” 

“Better than you, I think. You’re too close.”

“And you recklessly and constantly undermine everything he worked for because it makes you feel temporarily less guilty.”

Amrod stood up too, then. “While you don’t feel guilty at all.”

“Well,” said Curufin, “no. Tell me, what good has it done you? Why exactly would I aspire to it?”

“Because,” Amrod said, “as long as we craft all these pretty little stories about why they died they will keep on dying. You can tell us all that I’m to blame for everything, and god knows I’m not going to rip away whatever helps you sleep at night-”

“Don’t you dare-” 

But Amrod had pivoted to look at Celegorm. “You can tell yourself that it just happened, that death is a random senseless great equalizer lunging out of the dark, but let’s not notice how, for something random and senseless, it sure strikes the same tree twice, doesn’t it? You –” facing Maglor - “You can tell yourself and our people that it’s some fucking tragipoetic dark night of the soul, that hope is about to dawn, that we’ve taken our lashes and learned our lesson and emerged from this stronger, but as long as you tell yourself they died to teach us a lesson, you won’t be able to face the real reason -”

 “Pityo,” Maglor said, quietly, lending his voice enough resonance to fill the room anyway, “you know I don’t believe that, don’t you? Obviously we are not stronger for our losses. Obviously they did not occur in order to strengthen us. I know the real reason. I sing a story that will inspire our subjects to get up when we tell them it’s day and permit to sleep when we tell them it’s night.” 

“All right,” Caranthir said, “what’s the real reason?”

Amrod looked, Maglor thought distantly, more alive than he had in two years. In any event there was more blood in his face. He was staring at Maglor as if seeing him for the first time, and from a great distance. “You say it,” he said.

“The real reason,” Maglor said, “is because we’re doomed. We are all inevitably going to die, no matter what choices we make. We have already failed.”

“Mandos doesn’t have that kind of power,” Curufin snapped automatically. “They were trying to scare us.” 

“There are always ways around words,” Celegorm said. 

“I,” said Caranthir, “am curious if you had any objective in saying that, Pityo, beyond destroying morale.” 

“And,” Amrod said, “you are the only person in the room who even wondered. Have motives? Me? Yes, of course.”

There was a long silence. 

 “Turko,” said Maglor, “sit back down.”

He did.

"Pityo, sit back down."

He did.

“If we’re lying to ourselves,” Amrod said, “and each other, to protect each other, if we’re figuring out which stories we’ll tell before we know which ones we believe, if we forget there’s a difference – well. We’re all going to die. That’s fine. But I want to die at the enemy’s hands.” He was looking at Curufin again. “And so, if my brother’s death at Losgar was really an accident –”

“It was an accident,” said Maglor, forceful and quelling. 

“They we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do differently. I vote for no games, no lying. Not here. To our people? Sure. But –”

“We’re not all going to die,” Celegorm said. And then, reluctantly, when everyone at the table glared at him. “I’m not playing games. Never was, actually. I just don’t think we’re going to die. Cáno, with all due respect – and that might be the first time in my life that I’ve meant those words to convey a lot of respect – you like tragic endings, of course you’ve decided we have one.”

No, thought Maglor, that’s not the reason. The reason is that I already know your words. The words I’ll sing for you. “I think,” he said, “that maybe we’re all healing in our own way, now. I think ‘strong enough not to lie to ourselves’ is – something to aspire to.” 

“And,” Caranthir said bitterly, “on that topic, we’re pretending Maitimo is dead.”

"We’re agreeing Maitimo is dead,” said Curufin. 

Huan barked sharply. “Maitimo is dead,” Celegorm agreed slowly, “but if we happen to get an occasion to barricade the entrances to Angband and light the place on fire and kill everyone inside, we definitelytake it, even though it won’t do a thing to Moringotto or the Valaraukar. You know. Just because.”

 “And if a reasonable chance of rescue arises,” Amrod said, “same thing.”

“No,” Maglor said. “No. Even if a chance arises – we’d be too tempted, we’ll spend too much time looking for one, and it would be just like Moringotto to design something that looks like a possibility. If a reasonable chance for a rescue arises we ignore it, because Maitimo is dead.”

“We wouldn’t have to bear the risk ourselves,” Curufin said, “we could send someone.”

“Sure,” Maglor said. “If someone expendable shows up I will set them right on it. None of my subjects are.” It was silent again. Maglor wondered how close one would need to get to Angband to hear someone screaming inside. “Moringotto has no reason to actually keep him alive,” he said aloud, “and plenty of reason to lie to us and claim-”

“Careful,” said Amrod. “I think you’re convincing yourself of comforting things again.” 

“If I were trying to comfort myself,” Maglor murmured, “I should hope I could do better than this. Perhaps I would convince myself Maitimo has flattered Melkor’s servants into freeing him and is now starting an orcish civil war, and will return to us any day now, riding a warg and surrounded by legions faithful to our cause.” 

“With the Silmarils in his hair,” said Curufin.

They sat there in silence. “Well,” Celegorm said, “I am glad you can live with yourself. By your leave –” 

“No,” Maglor said, “we still have to figure out what we’re going to tell everyone.”

“You can do that without me.” 

“You have to know it,” Maglor said wearily. “Sit back down.” 

He didn’t. He crossed his arms and stood next to his chair. He looked, Maglor thought, like a pouting toddler. Startlingly young, for someone who’d snapped an orc’s neck with his bare hands less than an hour ago. 

What to tell his people? So that they’d have the strength to get up in the morning, he’d said, and the comfort to fall asleep at night, but night and morning were both illusions of their own, now that there were no trees to mark the days. An artifice of comforting lies, built on comforting lies.

“We could tell them the truth for once,” said Amrod wearily.

“I usually do,” said Maglor. “It’s all about how.” Their father’s body, turning to ash and blowing away on the wind - true, or a story? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure there was a difference. The Oath they’d spoken together with him, the Oath he’d claimed, in terrible pain, as his final words - true, or a story? Both, of course. All the best tales were.

Maitimo, a prisoner in Angband, suffering unimaginably - true, or a story? Did it matter? Not in how he had to tell it. Not at all, really.

"If we see any orcs with red hair-" said Celegorm bitterly.

"I changed my mind," said the King. "You can leave."

They all did, after that. One by one, and in silence.