Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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East of the Mountains

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It would have been several days walk back to Belegost, even if they had been travelling at the same speed as when they went north, but with several wounded to consider, Maedhros set a gentle pace through the open birchwoods that filled the eastern slopes of the Ered Luin, resting often, and stopping for the night. The eastern lands were not without peril; wolves could be heard calling at night. But they saw nothing of them, only green leaves and clear streams.

On the fourth evening, when the sun set and they saw the stars pricking into a clear sky, they even sang: real singing that lifted the voice to the stars. Carnil had shot a deer just as they stopped to camp, and Maedhros had decided that they could risk a fire to cook it, to make a break from the usual dried rations. It felt like a feast.

Maglor played the harp for a while; not great songs of strength and portent, but old joyful songs out of long ago, praising the stars of Varda, the trees of Yavanna. Then he put the harp down next to Maedhros.

“Go on,” he said. “You play, for once. I don’t see why I should always have to do all the work.”

Maedhros gave him a doubtful look. “If you would rather listen to my strumming than play yourself, I wonder if you are ill,” he said, but he adjusted the fit of his metal hand with the flesh one, and took the harp.

“I am not ill,” Maglor said, leaning back against a tree and smiling. “I am lazy. I don’t think I’ve been allowed to be lazy for at least five hundred years. I intend to seize the moment.”

Maedhros frowned at the harp, and then tucked it into the crook of his right arm, positioned the silver hand carefully upon the strings, and began to play. He picked out a simple refrain, and then repeated it with more confidence and began to elaborate the theme. Some of the others began to sing, but once Maedhros had played to the end of the third song he stopped and rubbed his living hand ruefully on his sleeve.

“I don’t have the fingers for this,” he said apologetically to the singers. “The metal fingers are tough enough, but the others are not!”

“I told you it was work,” Maglor said, smiling, looking up at the stars among the birch leaves. “You’re out of practice. You should play more often.”

“Can I play?” Elros asked.

“Of course,” Maglor said, absently, “It’s your harp really, I’m afraid. I took it from Doriath.”

Elros sat up, suddenly furious. “Does everything always have to be about the cursed Silmarils?”

“I didn’t mean...” Maglor said.

“We know what you did to Doriath. We know, all right? And we know that if either of us ever get our hands on a Silmaril, you really, really want us to hand it over. We get the message, about giving things back. The point is made .”

“Elros, I’m sorry...” Maglor said, alarmed. Telutan, sitting near him, got up and collected the waterskins. He headed down towards the stream that ran far below, in the manner of one who was carefully not listening.

“And you can stop that too!” Elros said. “Enough apologies! We are not Doriath, or the Havens personified. You are all so determined to think yourselves the worst, the absolute worst of Middle-earth. But that’s just stupid. If you were the worst, then Beleriand would not be in darkness, and Maedhros would have two hands.”

“Truth,” Maedhros said calmly. “But surely you will not argue that the existence of the greater evil excuses the lesser? Though speaking as the lesser evil, I feel I’m arguing the wrong side of this debate.”

Elrond said, mock-solemnly, “Perhaps you should have a rematch later, and swap sides.” Elros glared at him.

“Look,” Elros said, “Look, what I’m trying to say is, the very worst is over there,” he waved vaguely north and west, “Under Thangorodrim, not here. There’s no point brooding on things done, unless it helps undo them.”

“And that we cannot do, since there is no undoing death in Middle-earth.” Maedhros said. It was clear he was enjoying the discussion, though Maglor looked as though he would much rather be battling another dragon. “So what would you have us do? Surely regret is preferable to acceptance?”

“Not if it’s just telling yourselves how awful you are, and that nothing better can be asked or offered,” Elros said, with certainty. “ Orcs could do that.”

“Do you think orcs feel regret?” Maedhros asked thoughtfully. “I’ve never known one to apologise.”

“I don’t know. Do orcs have a choice in what they do? If they don’t have a choice, they don’t have anything to apologise for.” Elros’s voice had a defiant note in it. “Surely you’d know if anyone does?”

“I don’t,” Maedhros replied, easily. “I did not learn very much, when I was Morgoth's prisoner, about the autonomy and morality of orcs. I was inside Angband itself only for a short while — I think it was a few months — or years —  it was very dark. It seemed a long time. But that was alone inside a cell. After that, I was outside, as you know.  I am sure that I was outside most of the time... There was not much chance to observe their ways of thought. Perhaps they do feel guilt. Certainly the Men who serve Morgoth are capable of it.”

Maglor got up, came over and took the harp. “It was about ten years before we saw you on the mountain. If you are not going to play it then I will,” he said, gloomily, and began, unnecessarily, to tune it, half by sound and feel and half by firelight.

“And now I have made Maglor unhappy, by reminding him of his regrets,” Maedhros said. “Although, I never expected him to rescue me from Angband, whereas Elros could quite reasonably expect us not to attack his mother, so of the two, the second guilt seems more pressing.”

“I haven’t made a comparison,” Maglor said shortly. Elros made a face that was equal parts sympathy and annoyance.

Maedhros looked over at Maglor. “If Elros wishes to discuss regret and guilt with us, then surely he and Elrond have the right to do so, if the guilt means anything at all? ”

Maglor looked at him and a smile came back to the corner of his mouth. “You are feeling better, if you can turn my ideas upside down like that. Elros, argue with him! I can’t think like that. I just put all the words into songs and send them outwards... The twisty things he does with thoughts are quite beyond me.” He began to play the harp again.

Maedhros looked at him. “Hah! You think you’re clever. You will not sap my determination with laments for the deaths of kings. Play something cheerful.” Maglor narrowed his eyes and smiled. He began playing a merry dance from Ossiriand. The other Noldor looked relieved. They began drifting back towards the fire, away from finding things to do that were not listening.

Elros turned back to Maedhros, determined. “You said, regret is better than acceptance. All right. But making amends is better than either, it seems to me. We finally have a chance now, to win. Isn’t that the important thing? More important than hanging on to the past?”

“And my ghosts come back to haunt me. You sound like Fingon. Yes, I suppose it is. But...”

“How can there be a but? You don’t think the Valar can defeat Morgoth?”

Maedhros considered. “I hope so. But we have been here before: there was a time when I almost believed that we could win against him ourselves... It’s hard to let go of the past when there is so much of it. But also, we hang onto the past, because it hangs onto us. ”

“I have no idea what that means,” Elros said flatly.

“I will try to be clearer, then. It is you who has a chance to win. We don’t.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“It might have been, if it had not been for what we did at Alqualondë.”

“But that was centuries ago!”

“Yes. See how the past hangs on? Because of what we did at Alqualondë, Thingol would not make common cause with us when we came to Beleriand. Because of Alqualondë — among other reasons — he set Beren on to take the Silmaril, knowing that if Morgoth did not kill him, we would be bound to try to do it by our Oath. And so Finrod died, and neither Nargothrond nor Doriath would fight beside us. And very soon, we found we could attack Angband without hope, or attack Doriath. Then later the same choice at the Havens, of course.  If we had been able to hope that help might come... but after Gondolin fell, there seemed no chance of that. So the Oath forced us to follow the Silmaril that we could hope to take.”

“But how can there be any honour left in keeping an oath like that?”

“It would have been more honorable to attack Angband and die. But the Oath does not bind us to honour, it binds us to revenge, and to the Silmarils. When we swore, it seemed that all three went together. But they don’t.”

Elros looked annoyed. “Break the oath then.”

Maedhros paused and his eyes drifted to Fëanor’s spirit, waiting in the shadow of the trees. He looked at his father and his face twisted. Go away , his eyes said. Fëanor politely drifted further away down the hillside. He could still hear them, of course, but his presence seemed to make Maedhros uneasy, and there was no need for that just now. It was not as if Maedhros had been able to break the Oath, after all.

“I tried that. It’s harder than it looks. When the House of Fëanor makes things, whether gems, swords or oaths, we make them strong. Even if it has twisted, under Morgoth’s shadow, from what it was meant to be, the Oath is strong.” He paused and met Elros’s eyes, “It may be that you could resist such an Oath, with Lúthien’s strength and Beren’s determination to aid you, Elros. But I can’t.”

“So you would say you had no choice?” Elros asked. “Like the orcs.”

“Oh, worse than that. I don’t think orcs chose their allegiance; they were forced to it. There is no question that our choices were our own, to take the Oath and at Alqualondë; they only narrowed later. ”

“But you didn’t choose to serve Morgoth either! You’re doing it again. This idea that because you once did something bad, you are bound to go on doing worse things. Worse than orcs, even. Come on, you don’t believe that, or why did you make your great union against him? What are you doing killing orcs, helping the Dwarves to make armour for the Vanyar? Why slay Morgoth’s dragon, if you are like him?”

“I can’t take credit for the dragon. No need to be so modest, ” Maedhros said. “But if I had, my reason would be because Morgoth has two Silmarils.”

“Oh, really!” Elros exclaimed, rolling his eyes up at the stars.

“And the Silmarils are your only reason to fight him?” Elrond asked, eyebrows raised.

“Well, not the only reason. No. Not that. But it is the reason that must override all the others, even the desire to do as Elros urges me, to make amends for our deeds, or take revenge for our family, friends and all he has taken from us.”

“So,” Elrond said, wrinkling his forehead in thought. “You would say that orcs are better than you are, because they can’t do anything but obey Morgoth?” He raised his eyebrows, making a very doubtful expression.

“The orcs, one assumes, have given up trying to do better, if they ever tried; if they can even remember what regret is. Morgoth’s allies among Men know about guilt and about regret, of course. But I think they do not consider that they are guilty of anything much more than, say, Gil-galad. Not knowing Morgoth’s nature, they naturally believe this is a war of strength, and not of good and evil. But we know his nature, none better — and yet we acted just as he would have wished. Does that not give us the greater guilt?”

“No!” Elros said dismissively. “Not when you are still fighting him! Anyway, what about the others here? They didn’t swear your oath, did they? Does your argument not condemn your own people?”

“I hope not,” Maedhros said, looking around at the small group of Noldor, resting and talking in the firelight, and all very carefully not listening. “They are sworn to our allegiance, and so they are tangled up in our Oath, but it does not hold them. They follow us out of love and loyalty. That is not evil. We have led them on an evil path, but the path was our choice, not theirs.”

“Could you have attacked the Havens without them?” Elros asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, simply. “We are very practiced at war. For many of our people, the Havens was the point where they said: no more. But those who left us at the Havens had to turn on their friends as well as their sworn lords. That is a hard choice to ask of anyone.”

“But surely, breaking an oath of allegiance is also wrong?” Elrond asked. “It seems all paths here are wrong!”

“Of course. And they are wrong because of Alqualondë, no matter that it was long ago: that was where the path first went astray. But allegiance cannot compel obedience, only require it in honour. Therefore, allegiances can be broken. We could have refused to fight, at Alqualondë, as Nargothrond refused to fight for Finrod. That was their right. A king cannot rule without the consent of his subjects.”

“That is why you chose to waive your claim to be king of the Noldor,” Elros said.

Maedhros looked pleased. “Exactly right. The Noldor did not want the House of Fëanor. We tore our people into three parts and left most of them behind, unwanted. They knew my father did not love them, and so they lost their love for him, and for me, as his heir. They wanted Fingolfin, who had led most of them across the Ice. Even our own supporters, seeing that Fingolfin would endure so much...” He hesitated. “ I wanted Fingolfin to be our king. Our people did not deserve a king who could not lead them with a whole heart... And a king is no king if he clings to power against the interests of his people. Celebrimbor would be another example. He rejected his father, and myself, despite his sworn word to me as his lord, and our kinship. I can’t blame him for that. It was his right. Celebrimbor will never be more guilty than an orc.”

“I think I still prefer not to have been captured by orcs, even if I were convinced their moral state was superior,” Elrond said, looking sideways at Maedhros.

“Their undeniable moral superiority does not make them pleasant company,” Maedhros admitted, with a faint shadow of a smile.

“But if orcs can’t do anything but obey Morgoth, and you must obey your oath above all things, then it seems to me that you are, even at the most unkind reading, no more than on a level.” Elrond said, reasonably. “And you are not orcs. For one thing, you were kind to us... Since Morgoth has the Silmarils, victory against him surely is still a victory for you as well as us.”

Maedhros paused for a long moment, and his face fell back into its serious lines. “I wish it was,” he said quietly. “For you to win this war, Morgoth must be overthrown. But for us to win... For us to win, we must be there at the end, when Morgoth comes forth. We must take the Silmarils before the Valar do, somehow, and pray that the Oath is satisfied with two and does not require the third... It seems unlikely that it can be done. But as long as Morgoth has the Silmarils, we are permitted to oppose him. Once he does not, we will be back in the trap we have built for ourselves, at Alqualondë, in Doriath, at the Havens.”

“You are saying you’d do it again,” Elros said, bleakly. Elrond said nothing, but he bit unhappily at his thumbnail.

“I think you should be aware that we might have to,” Maedhros replied, frowning. “Elrond, you understate the most unkind reading of events. You should speak more with Gil-galad.”

Elrond stopped biting at his thumb and looked seriously at Maedhros instead.

“I talk to him regularly. We both do. But I don’t think either of us is convinced that he is always right. Particularly about things that haven’t happened yet.”

“How do you know that I am not holding you hostage, against the day the Valar take the Silmarils? Deliberately working to ensure that if they came to you, children of Lúthien, you’d give them to us? For that matter, can you be sure I am not holding you to trade against the Star in the West?”

“Because you asked that question,” Elrond said, with an air of exaggerated patience. “If you were holding us hostage for the Star in the West, you would be a fool to tell us, or have this discussion at all. It’s clear that is not your intent, for a hundred reasons, not least, because you have clearly both been training us for years in the hope that if the worst happened, we’d be able to beat you.”

Maedhros looked alarmed. His eyes flickered briefly to Fëanor’s spirit where it lingered behind Elrond in the wood, before he met Elrond’s eyes. “Oh, what nonsense,” he said, lightly. And then, abandoning the conversation and turning away, “Are you going to play the harp after all, Elros, or shall I ask if there is anyone else who would like to play, since Maglor so emphatically wishes to be lazy?”

And Fëanor wondered when his eldest son had learned to distrust him so completely.

 

* * * * *

On the third day, they heard voices in the distance, down in the valley below them, and the lowing of cattle.

“Men!” Telutan said. “There was a way that ran north on this side of the mountains that was not heavily wooded. They could bring cattle and wagons that way.”

From the thin birchwoods of the hilltops at the feet of the Ered Luin, they found a place where they could look down and see the Men pass by. They were many thousands, marching in loosely ordered companies and bearing many banners. They wore leather coats set with rings, or no armour at all, and behind them came ox-drawn carts and herds of cattle being driven by men on foot with dogs. They moved slowly and there were so many of them that they filled the valley and after the first of them had turned away out of sight behind a steep hillside, there were still more coming up behind.

“I don’t recognise most of those banners, do you?” Maedhros said to Maglor, as they watched. “Apart from the one at the front, of course, the wolf. That was Ulfang’s.”

“Morgoth has sent some of his pet Easterlings home, to bring back their friends and allies,” Maglor said. “I wonder if they have any idea what they are heading into... Well, we suspected it. At least now we do not have to scale Mount Rerir to confirm it.”

 

* * * * *

 

They came down at last from the hills to meet the wide dwarf-road that ran out from Belegost and Nogrod to the mysterious dwarf cities of the East.

There they met a strong patrol of armoured Dwarves, marching through the mountain-pass from Belegost. Their task was to watch the road and check the walls of the pass into Beleriand for signs of orcs, in case the Enemy should try an attack unexpectedly from the east.

Maedhros sent the wounded back to Belegost with them, but he led the rest south, still on the eastern side of the Ered Luin. They had another task to do here in the wild eastern lands, before they went back into the west.

They walked on for several days, moving much faster now, south through rolling green hills and wild woods where the primroses were coming into yellow flower in every glade and clearing. On into lowland woods filled with the scent of bluebells under the fresh green of the new beech-leaves. There was little sign of the Enemy here, so far from Angband, although twice they found signs of long-abandoned camps, piled with the bones of orcs. So far south, and east, their swords rarely flickered with the light that said servants of the Enemy were near. This land was not under the control of Morgoth, not yet.

At last, they came down a long grassy slope, and could see in the distance a wide brown river. It ran south and west across a green and fertile land that lay along the river-shore. Here and there along the river there were small villages of low wooden houses, with pale roofs that shone in the sun. Across the river, the forest began again, fading away south into green distances. The trees were coming into full leaf here down by the river, and the sun was warm.

They came out of the trees, and made for the largest of the villages across the fields. As they approached, thickset shaggy dogs came out, first barking and then approaching with wagging tails to greet the Elves with wriggling delight.

Their owners were close behind: stout strong-looking men and women with brown faces, wearing clothes made from well-tanned deerskins and carrying bows, with broad knives upon their belts. The men were bearded, almost like dwarves, and the women wore their dark hair in thick plaits. Their leader, a stocky man who wore a red gem around his neck that was clearly of Fëanorian design, hurried cheerfully to greet Maedhros.

“Borthin!” Maedhros said, clasping the offered hand, “It’s good to see you again!”

“And to see you, my lord!” Borthin released Maedhros’s hand so that the others could shake it too. “We have had no more trouble with raiders since last you came to our aid, I am pleased to say, although we are keeping up the patrols.”

“That’s good to hear,” Maedhros said. “This is my brother Maglor; I’ve spoken of him. These are our kinsmen, Elrond and Elros. They are half-Elven princes out of the West, descended from the Men and Elves who were our allies in the Great Battle. I think you know the others? Elros, Elrond, this is Borthin son of Ioreth, daughter of Iorin, who was the sister of Borthand the faithful.”

“Delighted!” Borthin said, shaking hands all round with great enthusiasm. “A star shines on us, isn’t that how you say it? Here are some of the people of my house: Heldfast, Held the Young, Borlass...This is Borfast the Steadfast, and this is Aleborn, he’s the headman of the next village... But I see you come in armour, are there enemies about? Should I sound the alarm, and call our people to arms?”

“No, we are not expecting an attack. ” Maedhros reassured him. “We have seen no orcs for days, indeed. It is only that we came down from the North this time, and it is easier to wear armour than to carry it.”

“How is the war going, my lord?” Borlass asked. She was a notably short and broad woman, wearing beads on strings around her strong arms, and a wide smile, with a small child hiding behind her skirt.

“Too slowly for my taste, alas,” Maedhros replied. “But the Noldor and Vanyar hosts are holding the Enemy in battle. I do not think he will turn his attention this way soon, unless we are very unlucky. How does the building go?”

Borthin shook his head, his cheerful face suddenly fallen into embarrassed wrinkles. “I am sorry, lord. We could not get the beams in place. I was hoping that we might get help from the Dwarves to move them before you came by again. We have cut the timber and it’s all seasoned and ready, but to move such large pieces...”

“Let us go and have a look at it,” Maedhros said. “Among my people we have plenty of experience with moving wood and stone.”

 

* * * * *

 

“You’re building a quay on the river?” Elrond said, some time later peering at the plans spread across the width of a tree-stump and then looking around at the wide brown waters of the river, sparkling in the afternoon sun. They had taken off their armour and left it in Borthin’s small wooden hall, which everyone seemed to find a welcome relief, for the day was warm: even Fëanor could feel the light and warmth washing through him. “Why? I didn’t see any ships?”

“We don’t build ships,” Borthin admitted. “Small boats, yes. For duck-hunting or fishing, no problem. We make those very well. I would venture to say you could not find a finer canoe than ours in Middle-earth! But you can bring them ashore anywhere. I understand that the sort of ships that the lord Maedhros speaks of cannot do that.”

“Well, not if we are going to load them,” Maedhros said. “But we are not expecting Borthin’s folk to build the ships. That is where I am hoping you may agree to help us, Elrond. Look, here at this map. You can see that this river flows west to the Sea. If you can persuade Círdan to send ships up the river, then we can send dragon-armour from Belegost directly to the Vanyar through Eglarest. We will not have to cross East Beleriand at all, or deal with the armies that are ranged all along the Sirion. Our enemy has no ships of his own, so this would be quite outside his reach. What do you think?”

Elros frowned at the map. “And the river is navigable all the way to the sea, is it? What about the tides? Does the map show the high or low tide mark?”

Maedhros looked pleased. “I thought you’d be good at this.”

“Our hunters take boats down the river, almost to the Sea,” Borthin said, running a broad finger along the map. “They turn back where the banks become sand. There are no rapids downstream, and the river runs wide and deep. But I’m not sure how deep it needs to be.”

“Elros and Elrond may know about that, I think,” Maedhros said.

Elros gave Maedhros an amused look. “You do remember that we left the Havens when we were six, don’t you?” he said. “But very well. Let us have a proper look at this map.”

 

* * * * *

“Down a little.” Maedhros called, “A little more. All right. It’s in place, you can let go!”

Maglor, Carnil and ten of the people of Bór let the rope fall slack. Maglor stepped back, rubbing the sweat away from his eyes, and walked over to inspect the huge beam of timber they had just lifted into place on the river shore.

“That doesn’t look as if it will ever move again”, he said to Maedhros. “Tell me it was the last one!”

“It is the last one,” Maedhros said, staring at the plan. “Until Borthin and Saeldir get the others over here tomorrow, at any rate.”

“That’s good,” Borfast said, stretching. “About time we took a break! ” He walked away upstream a little way to a place where a small stream came down to the river making a small sandy beach, and began to bathe his feet. The other Men of Bór followed him into the water. Borlass and a few of the children came down from the houses to join them. The children began splashing water at each other joyfully, squealing.

Maglor looked at the plan over his brother’s shoulder, and groaned. “Would it not be easier to carry the armour piece by piece to the sea?”

“We would have to carry it all ourselves,” Maedhros said. “Neither Dwarves with their ponies nor the people of Bór and their dog-carts can easily cross the many streams that join the Baranduin, unless we built bridges, which would be harder still. Then we’d have the problem of the fens. The small boats can’t carry enough weight. This is the easiest way.”

“I don’t like your definition of easiest,” Maglor said darkly.

“I’d offer to help, but...” Maedhros waved the silver hand innocently, to illustrate his inability to haul on a rope.

“Very convenient! Though I think Borthin would be upset if you did.” Maglor threw himself down onto the grass next to Maedhros and closed his eyes. “He doesn’t seem too happy about me hauling ropes, let alone you doing it.”

“Borthin will preserve the last shreds of my princely dignity if it means he had to put up the entire quay himself,” Maedhros said, mock-solemnly. “Fortunately, this means that I have a jug of... whatever this is. Carnil! Put that rope down and come and have a drink. You’re making Maglor look feeble.”

Carnil laughed. “That will never do,” she said. She put the coiled rope out of the way, sat down gracefully on the sheep-cropped turf, and accepted a wooden cup.

Maedhros said, “I did wonder though, if we should try to stop Elrond and Elros...”

“Stop us doing what?” Elrond said cheerfully, climbing up the bank to flop down on the grass next to Maglor. He was shirtless and wearing only breeches, and his long dark hair was coming loose from the braid.

“I get the impression that Men like their kings to be too dignified to dig holes in the mud,” Maedhros told him, handing him a cup. “And you two are getting very muddy. Is this likely to cause trouble if word of it gets back to the Edain on the Isle of Balar?”

“What, more trouble than accepting drinks from the House of Fëanor?” Elrond considered. “If anyone asks, I shall claim it is only my Elven ancestry that has led to me being covered in mud. I’m sure everyone will believe that without question.”

“Getting your hands dirty and carrying out backbreaking labour is in the finest tradition of the kings of the Noldor,” Maglor said, without opening his eyes. “You should have seen our father after a day in his workshop. I don’t see the appeal myself. I should have been born among the Sindar. They have a proper appreciation for a musician’s hands. I have a blister!”

“I weep for you,” Maedhros said, poking him with a foot, and then handing him a cup when he opened his eyes and sat up, blinking.

“Anyway, Elros isn’t muddy any more,” Elrond said. “That’s what I came up to tell you. We’ve finished straightening the bank. He’s gone swimming.”

“So he has,” Maglor said, looking down the river, where in the distance beyond the people who were paddling in the shallow water, a dark head was making a vee of ripples on the surface of the golden sunlit water.

“That looks very cool and pleasant,” Carnil said, setting down her empty cup. “I think I’ll join him.”

“I’ll come with you,” Maglor said, draining his cup and hauling himself to his feet with an effort. “It would be good to wash the sweat off. And perhaps cold water will help the blisters.”

Maedhros watched them walk along the bank, to the place where there was a gentle sandy shelf that folded down towards the water. Elros came swimming in to greet them.

“Gil-galad says that Círdan will send a ship to try the passage of the Baranduin when next the tide is right. Perhaps a fortnight, he thinks,” Elrond said.

“We won’t have the armour ready by then,” Maedhros said, and paused. “But you know that, of course: we have not had time to complete the revised patterns and get them made up... But they aren’t coming for that, are they? They’re coming for you and Elros.”

“Yes,” Elrond said. He looked down and picked a piece of drying mud off his leg.

“Thank you for the warning. Maglor and I should leave this place, then. Do you think Gil-galad will kill Borthin and his people in revenge, if we are not here?”

“No!” Elrond looked taken aback. “I’m sure that’s not...”

“Círdan is very level-headed, but Gil-galad...”

“Gil-galad is not as reckless as you think he is,” Elrond said. “He doesn’t like you very much, and you can’t blame him for that. But for most of us, dislike doesn’t mean violence is inevitable.”

“No. No, of course it doesn’t. Sorry.” Maedhros shook his head as if trying to clear it.

“I thought perhaps...” Elrond trailed off uncertainly. Maedhros waited.

“Elros and I thought... We thought that perhaps Elros should go to Balar with Círdan, to see how our people are doing there, and I should stay here in the east with you. For a while. Making dragon-armour for the Vanyar in the workshops of the Dwarves is a good idea. Everyone thinks so. But it needs someone here to talk to Círdan and Gil-galad and the hosts of Valinor as well as the dwarves.”

“It was only ever going to work if it could become your plan, not mine.” Maedhros said. “Even Círdan is hardly going to trust me.”

“So you think it would be best if I stayed?”

Maedhros looked surprised. “I thought you’d both want to go home. You could still coordinate things with the dwarves from Balar. Borthin knows you now, and so does Audur.”

“Balar isn’t our home,” Elrond said, a little awkwardly. “The Havens was our home, but it’s gone. Our parents are gone too, and... and it seems they can’t return. If we have a home now, it’s with you.”

Maedhros’s face twisted and his eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, be careful,” he said, almost in a whisper. “On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also...

“Don’t follow us, Elrond! To evil end shall all things turn that we begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. So Mandos foretold, and every word was true.”

Elrond looked at the mud on his boots for a long moment. It had dried a pale colour, and was splitting into tiny cracks. “Didn’t you just say, it was only ever going to work as our plan, not yours? It’s my idea that I shall not go to Balar, not yours. I am not staying to follow you. Nor even Maglor, though he’s less terrifying than you are... It’s possible to be fond of people without following them, or even agreeing with them, you know.”

Maedhros blinked in surprise. “I suppose it is. I wish I’d worked that out when I was your age.”

“Anyway,” Elrond said, looking at the swimmers in the river below, “Elros doesn’t think it will be like going home, either. But Gil-galad needs one of us on Balar, not both.”

“Gil-galad has agreed to this? And Galadriel?”

“Do Thingol’s heirs require the permission of the Noldor to come and go in Middle-earth?” Elrond asked, with a raised eyebrow.

For a moment, Maedhros was taken aback, then he looked amused. “I’m sure that went down well with Galadriel.”

“Gil-galad needs someone to lead the Edain; that is his main concern. He wanted both of us to go to Balar, but... I said one of us should stay here. He said: it would be wise to keep an eye on you, if I was sure I could do it without getting killed. But Galadriel told me to follow my heart.”

“Did she really?” Maedhros said with an incredulity that Fëanor shared. “About staying with us? She has mellowed.”

“She said the Valar have told her she was a leader in the rebellion of the Noldor, and would be held responsible for it. I think it shook her.”

“With her father here, leading their host, after all her brothers were killed? That seems harsh. Galadriel’s no kinslayer.”

“Isn’t she? I didn’t like to ask.”

“Well, now you know not to... She walked across the Grinding Ice, too. I would have thought that would have been enough to excuse her from being included with the rest of us. Ah, the Valar can be strange.”

Fëanor felt this was a significant understatement, but perhaps Maedhros felt it necessary to be circumspect in speaking to Elrond.

“I’ll stay, then.”

“It would please Maglor,” Maedhros said. “Well, it pleases me too, I admit. I thought we would not see either of you again. But you should go. You should know people who are your own age.” He paused. “For that matter, you should know people who aren’t kinslayers.”

“That’s my choice, not yours. Anyway, I know Borthin’s people, and plenty of entirely blameless and upstanding dwarves.”

Maedhros smile had a wry edge to it. “You do. Well, as you say, Thingol’s heirs need no permission from me. Stay and keep an eye on us, or don’t, as you wish.”

Elrond gave him a sideways smile, bright as the river under the sun. “I want to ask you something though,” he said. He got to his feet, and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “Can you try? Try not to assume defeat is inevitable and that you can’t do anything but go on killing and killing until the darkness takes you.  You said, before, that if you had been able to hope for aid, you might not have attacked the Havens.”

“It would have been madness to attack the Havens, if we had known that help might come at last from Valinor,” Maedhros said.  “But that does not change the fact we did it.”

“But if you had still had hope... I know it’s hard. But just... try. Maglor is trying.”

“Maglor is much better at hope than I am. He has never had to entirely let go of it.” Maedhros ran his finger along the silver cuff of his metal hand.

“Why not try? What do you have to lose?”

“Hope hurts more than despair,” Maedhros said, as one stating an obvious fact. “I learned that on Thangorodrim. When the sun first rose, and Fingolfin’s trumpets sounded before the gates of Angband and echoed on the mountain, I had hope. But they could not breach the gate, and they turned and went away and left me hanging on the mountain. That was the worst time. Each sunrise I tried not to hope that this would be the day Morgoth would relent and kill me... It was almost five years, from the sunrise, until Fingon came.”

“But he did come.”

“Yes... Since it is you who asks, I will try to hope.” He looked up and met Elrond’s eyes. “Don’t rely on my succeeding.”

“All right.” Elrond smiled again, pleased. Then he had a different thought. “They are running low on fresh water, on Balar, Gil-galad says. Elros thought we could begin moving some of the Edain to this side of the mountains; the children and the old men and women, at least... Do you think that would work?”

“I think you should ask Borthin. These are not my lands: it was Borthin’s great grandfather who made alliance with me and he paid dearly for it. Borthin is descended from him in the female line. I understand that means his line is considered a new one, but in any case, I have never asked Borthin for any oath.”

“Do you think Borthin sees it like that? You saved his people, last time the orcs attacked, didn’t you? He names himself, ‘Faithful’. ”

“That is an alarming thought... Very well, I am in favour, then. I must find out if Borthin can be persuaded to declare he is king in his own right. I’m loath to bring the Doom of Mandos down on him for no good reason. Perhaps you can offer him an alliance with the Edain?”

“I expect so. Elros likes Borthin, too.” Elrond scratched a crust of mud from his elbow. “You are right, I am very muddy. I’m going to swim and wash the mud off. Are you coming?”

“You want me to come and swim in the river?” Maedhros said, incredulous.

“Why not? It’s a warm day. Maglor is swimming.”

“It is a warm day and there are orcs led by Balrog generals just the other side of the mountains, and armies of Men in alliance with Morgoth only a few days north of us.” Maedhros said. His hand wandered to his sword hilt, and he drew the sword just a little, to check if it shone.

“You looked at that when I said Elros was in the water,” Elrond pointed out. “It wasn’t shining then, and still isn’t. Orcs don’t like sun, or water.” He paused, considering. ”The sword might be cumbersome in the water, but you could probably swim with a knife, if it would make you happier.”

Maedhros laughed. It was a harsh laugh, but a real one, and Fëanor listening found his heart cheered by it.

Maedhros got up, and began to undo the buckle of the strap that held his silver hand in place. “I shall see if I can manage without one.”