Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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The Oath Bites Deeper

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In the end, Lúthien kept her Silmaril for less than a year. A few shining months, and then Lúthien and her brief mortal husband flickered out like candle-flames and were gone forever. The Silmaril, set in the Necklace of the Dwarves, passed to her son, Dior, in Doriath.

Maedhros waited, once they had heard that Dior had the Silmaril, while the leaves turned gold and blew away, and the snow fell white on the foothills of the Ered Luin, and melted and was gone; while the spring winds blew away and the leaves grew long upon the elm trees in the woods of Ossiriand. But nothing changed in Angband, and no word came from Doriath.

At last he sent a messenger. Not one of their own, who might not be trusted in Menegroth, who might be at risk of being provoked, but a diplomatic choice, an ally of both Doriath and East Beleriand. He sent a Green-elf of Ossiriand, one who would be welcome to cross Doriath’s borders with a letter, no matter who that letter came from.

He wrote the letter himself, and did not allow Curufin to edit it.

And still, two Silmarils sat in the dark on Morgoth’s crown, as far from reach as they had ever been. No answer came from Doriath.

Amon Ereb, the lonely hill, stood tall above the waving grass of the wide, deserted plains of East Beleriand. From this, his last stronghold, Maedhros sent out word to them: the Sons of Fëanor and all that was left of their people, all of those who still had arms to bear and were strong enough to bear them.

Amon Ereb would not have contained the great army that had marched out so proudly to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. But now the tower and the squat yellow walls were enough to provide shelter for all the forces that the Fëanorians had left to them.

Inside those walls, the late autumn sun lit on small white flowers that grew in the grass among the trees. Fëanor’s sons sat beneath the white limbs and fading yellow leaves of birch trees, planted as gifts from the Green-elves to Caranthir, in thanks for keeping orc-armies back beyond the river Gelion, and they discussed the problem of Doriath.

“I don’t know why they don’t just turn it over to us,” Maedhros said, bitterly. “But if Dior were minded to do that, he has had more than enough chances.”

“He could at least have sent a reply! But to ignore us entirely, that is black insult,” Caranthir said with a frown.

“He is Thingol’s grandson. He has not forgotten the tales he has been told of the battle at Alqualondë. He is our enemy,” Celegorm said. “He will always be our enemy. The only way we will ever take the Silmaril from him is by force.”

Amras looked at Celegorm and Curufin as they sat together at the table opposite him, and the corner of his mouth twisted. “He is Lúthien’s son, and Beren’s. He will not forgive you. Or us.”

Amrod, next to him, shrugged. “We must deal with the world as it is,” he said. “The Silmaril alone would make him our enemy, no matter who his parents were.”

Maglor looked around at his brothers. “It was Morgoth who slew our father and our grandfather. And he has two Silmarils, to Dior’s one.” He looked at Maedhros. “You said before that we would think of Doriath after Angband.”

“Before,” Maedhros said. His face was closed and grim, as it usually was now.

Celegorm said, “We can have no more hope that Dior will give up the gem than Morgoth will.”

“There is pity. Dior can feel that. Morgoth won’t.”

“I fear that pity has failed us,” Amras said.

Curufin said, “We cannot take the Silmarils from Angband. But I think we can take the one that is in Menegroth. If we are prepared to take up arms against Doriath.”

There was a long silence, broken only by a robin trilling in the branches above. Fëanor reached out gently to Celegorm, who seemed most inclined to his own way of thinking, and to Curufin, who was always the easiest of his sons for him to guide and influence, and pushed.

“Then we must do that.” Celegorm said. “We have no choice, we are sworn to it. Our father would wish it done. Do we all agree?”

Maglor looked at Maedhros, and bowed his head. Maedhros said nothing.

“At least we stand a chance of attacking Doriath with some success. There need be no great bloodshed, surely.” Curufin said, hopefully. “A swift strike to seize the jewel, and retreat. The Sindar have no great reason to fight for it. By all accounts, they put up little resistance to the Dwarves. ”

That was how it seemed to Fëanor, too. Doriath was weak. Doriath would fall easily.

 

* * * * *

 

But it was not so simple. Doriath might no longer be protected by the Girdle of Melian, and Doriath had lost its King and Queen, but Doriath had a shining new king now, and Doriath had not given up.

The Sons of Fëanor stormed the bridge over the River Aros at midwinter, when the trees of Doriath stood stark and black beneath the pale winter sky, and they came to Menegroth at nightfall, moving so fast that no word of the attack reached the city before they arrived at the the great carven gates. The guards at the gates resisted fiercely, but were swiftly overcome. But once they had entered the underground city, the Fëanorian attack faltered.

Menegroth was well named the Thousand Caves. Every corridor and room was bitterly contested, and unlike the Dwarves of Nogrod, the Noldor had no skill in battle underground. Passages looped and joined confusingly: lights failed, leaving the Noldor in the dark. Sindar with bows appeared behind them in places that they had thought already subdued, feigned voices called them on and led them into traps. There was no choice but to force their way onward; no way out but to kill their opponents hand to hand, in the narrow spaces deep underground.

Their planned attack had become a bloodbath well before Celegorm cornered Dior the king in the hall where Thingol and Melian had once held court.

There, under the trees drawn in filigree gold upon the walls and roof, Dior slew Celegorm before his servants could come to his aid, and Nimloth the Queen slew Curufin with her own hands before she died. Caranthir came running to his brothers’ aid, but he came too late, and with too little help. By the time Amrod and Amras strode into the hall, their bloody swords in hand, Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were dead.

Fëanor was not there. Fëanor was searching the halls, workshops, treasuries and store-rooms of Menegroth. But nowhere could he find what he sought, the unsullied light that had shone before the Sun and Moon, caught by his own skill and knowledge in a cage of crystal.

He had not seen them for so long. He had never thought that he might have to take them by force from Elves, the people of his father’s friend. It wasn’t the first time, of course, that the quest for the jewels had turned to kinslaying... although it was the first time that Fëanor and his sons had deliberately chosen to plan such an attack in advance. Best to focus on the job in hand, and not to think too much about that.

And then at last and far too late, his search brought him to the room where three of his sons lay dead: Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin. By them lay King Dior, son of Lúthien, and Nimloth the Queen, and their blood mingled on the floor of many-coloured stone.

Fëanor came too late to save them, too late to do anything but mourn. He had never quite managed to find out what had gone wrong with Celegorm, never managed to rekindle Curufin’s courage. Had never even comforted him in his fear: he could have done that, if nothing else...  

And now Caranthir was gone too, and that was both a bitter grief and a sore loss to their cause. Caranthir had proved one of the most able of his sons.

Curufin’s body looked surprised, in death, as if he had not expected it. Perhaps Nienna would comfort him, in the Halls of Mandos. But no, ‘ye will find little pity’; so the Doomsman of the Valar had spoken. And there would not be many who would entreat for Curufin, anyway. Fëanor and his sons lay under the curse, and whether living or dead, their Oath still held them.

It was a long time before a kind of bloody peace came at last to Menegroth.

When it did, the Silmaril still was nowhere to be found. Maedhros sent out all his people, looking everywhere again, and again, in increasing desperation. Amrod and Amras were searching with the thorough patience of hunters, room by room, finding hidden doors and little-used hallways. Maglor searched more randomly, striding swiftly from room to room with his eyes flicking from door to door; stopping here and there to turn over a table or open a cupboard.

Fëanor searched too, unseen but tireless, hunting through the corpse-strewn caves, the few rooms still occupied by cringing survivors who had laid down their arms, too afraid to fight any more.

Maedhros frowned at the improvised map of Menegroth, drawn carefully by draftsmen sent out with each search party. It was made of many smaller pages, annotated and joined neatly together to make a whole. Fëanor frowned at it too, from the other side, willing it to give up its secrets.

“We’ve been through the whole place twice now, and still there’s no sign of it. Something else is missing, too. Dior’s children. There were three, we heard. Eluréd and Elurín, the boys - I think they would be six or seven years old now, and a little girl. What was her name?”

“Elwing,” Maglor supplied. “I have seen rooms that must have been theirs, but no sign of the children themselves. You think the Silmaril is with them?”

“It seems likely. His children and the Silmaril, the most precious things to Dior in Menegroth and both are missing.”

“The girlchild, Elwing, she cannot be more than three years old. Surely she cannot stay quiet for long,” Amras said. “We should listen for her. If the city falls silent then she may cry out and be heard...”

“But Lord,” said one of the soldiers who had been working on the maps. “I saw the boys. Celegorm’s men took them, after Celegorm fell, I’m sure of it. I saw them heading back towards the Gates.”

“I saw them too,” confirmed another. “We were still fighting in this western section, after my lord Celegorm fell. ” he pointed to the map, “Varnion and Séreture went back with the children. We covered their retreat.”

“Well, where are they?” Maedhros looked around in irritation. “Were they searched? Find them!”

It was some time before Varnion and Séreture, who had been Celegorm’s cup-bearer and shield-bearer, could be found, and later still before they admitted the revenge they had taken for their lord. They had led the children into the midwinter forest and left them there alone to starve or freeze.

“They are seven years old!” Maedhros exclaimed. “What were you thinking?”

“Our lord died at their father’s hands!” Séreture told him sullenly. She looked up at him defiantly. “He would have wanted his revenge!” It was strange that she was so passionate. She had only been Celegorm’s shield-bearer since he returned from Nargothrond: all of his old servants had stayed there with Celebrimbor. She was one of the few who had not followed her lord to Nargothrond, and had awaited his return in the east. But perhaps that meant that she had something to make up for.

Varnion was more conciliatory; “We searched them well before we left them,” he said “There is no need to worry about that, lord Maedhros. I am sure they were not carrying the Silmaril.”

Maedhros looked at them both. “I will do much to recover the Silmaril,” he said grimly. “Whatever I must do, I will do. But this was not done to recover the Silmaril. We don’t make war on children.”

Séreture interrupted him. “We have hunted the Sindar like beasts through their caves. They have slain our lord Celegorm, who we followed from Aman and brought us to this land, and two others of your brothers. What merit is there in keeping the wolf-cubs alive, when the sire has been hunted down? They will only grow up to bite us.”

“No!” Maedhros said, emphatically, taking a step towards her. He was by far the taller, but she did not back away. ”This was mere revenge on those who had done nothing, and could do nothing to defend themselves. It is orc-work, and I will not countenance it . You will lead me to where you left the children now.”

“I will not.” Séreture lifted her head defiantly. “I keep my lord’s faith.”

“Die then, and join your lord,” Maedhros said, and almost carelessly, he ran her through, there by the maps, in front of his surviving brothers, and she fell to the ground and died without a word.

Maedhros turned to Celegorm’s other servant. “Take me to Dior’s children. Do it swiftly,” he said, in a strangely calm voice.

“Of course, my lord. But..” Varnion hesitated and Maedhros raised the tip of his bloody blade, just an inch. Varnion went on hastily “It was only the two boys that we left there. I can take you to the place. But the girl was not with them. We saw no sign of her at all.”

Maedhros exhaled in frustration. “Maglor, would you take a party to see if you can find the girl? Talk to the survivors, find out if she had a nursemaid. See if Galadriel is still alive, too; the last I heard of her she was in Doriath. If she is here, she may be with the child. I will seek the boys.”

Varnion led Maedhros to a shadowed dell, hidden away from the winding forest-paths, where he said the boys had been left. The sun was rising through the trees by then, catching the frost on the dark trunks and bare twigs into a cold midwinter fire: the shadows of the trees were long and blue, and their breath puffed into mist as they moved. There was no sign of the two children.

“They will be hiding, no doubt,” Maedhros said, looking around thoughtfully at the silent trees. “They must be afraid. We will spread out and search...”

Maedhros spent several days searching the forests of Doriath, hunting across the long wooded hillsides, pale with frost, searching the thickets where the holly still grew strong and green even at midwinter, where perhaps a frightened child might have tried to hide from winter and enemies.

But he found nothing: the children of Dior had vanished into the winter forest. The woods of Doriath were no longer protected from anything that might cross the borders from the fearful valleys of Nan Dungortheb to the North. More than once they heard wolves howling in the frozen forest as they searched. But wolves were not the worst of it.  Children of Doriath, used to climbing trees, might survive the wolves, but the cold would be harder to escape.  

In Menegroth, Maglor found no sign of little Elwing, the last of the royal family of Doriath - nor of Galadriel - nor the Silmaril. Eventually they were forced to the conclusion that someone, unnamed, had fled from Menegroth, taking both the child, and the gem.

* * * * * *

East Beleriand, that spring, was strangely peaceful. Morgoth’s armies rarely came far south, even now, thirty-five years after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he had not fully occupied East Beleriand. Roaming orc-bands, yes, strange things seen in the night, and the lands slowly turning darker and more dangerous. The fumes of Thangorodrim reached often far south now, and beneath their shade, orcs roamed without fear of the sun. But the expected great push south in force though the wide breach in the hills that had been called Maglor’s Gap had not yet come, and the fragile defenses of the Andram Wall still remained largely untried.

Morgoth himself remained in Angband, imprisoned behind his own iron doors. What he might be plotting there, they could only wait to find out.

Morgoth was a coward, Fëanor thought, as he stood on the great hill-wall of Andram, looking North towards the land of his enemy. But that weakness had not disadvantaged him as it should have done. Build up enough hoarded strength and even a craven can win a long campaign. And Morgoth, it seemed, was still hoarding his might.

He had lost his great dragon-general, Glaurung, Father of Dragons, he had lost his Balrog captain, Gothmog of terrible rumour, slain in the fall of Gondolin. He must, surely, have other generals — and yet Morgoth seemed reluctant to send them out.

It was fortunate that he was so cautious. Having lost three of their leaders, and many others who had fallen in the attack on the Thousand Caves, the people of Fëanor were spread thin, and often they were hard-pressed to keep their ground. If Morgoth had chosen to press his advantage, they would have been swept away entirely.

But for now, Amrod and Amras still roamed through East Beleriand, hunting for supplies, and watching for the raiding parties of the orcs. It was not an easy task. There were no great battles to be fought, no well-armed and ordered companies any more. There was little glory in their work, only an endless drudgery of small vicious struggles, villages to protect or evacuate, in a land of woods and meadows where straggling groups of refugees fled desperately south and east away from Angband, fleeing the horrors that were spreading out of Gorgoroth into what had once been Doriath and Himlad and beyond, hoping for safety by the banks of the Sirion, or across the Ered Luin.

Amrod and Amras got little thanks for their work. The Sindar turned their heads away, now, if a Noldor raiding party should pass by. They could rely on little help from those who had owed allegiance to Thingol or to Dior.

“I can’t blame them,” Amras said to his twin, one evening by the fire. “But could they not be just a little more willing to pass on information at least? I met a family today who would not speak to me, even in their own language! What does it benefit them if an orc troop goes unslain?”

“We killed their king.” Amrod shrugged. His face was smudged and tired: it usually was, now. “I’m not sure if Gothmog decided to come and fight against Morgoth, I would be passing him information either.”

“Gothmog!” Amras laughed harshly. He looked nearly as tired as his brother. “I have no fiery whip, and nor do you! But we are short of allies. If Gothmog sent me a message saying that he’ll hold the country north of the Andram wall safe from spiders and walking spirits of the dead for a clear month of the moon, I’d be seriously tempted to entertain the offer and thank him. I’m sure Fingon would forgive us in our need!”

“I think he would, if he could know. Maedhros wouldn’t, though.”

“If Gothmog offers me an alliance, I’ll be careful not to mention it to him.”

“If our brother wants to dictate our alliances, he could do more himself to help,” Amrod said, making a face.

Amras looked at him in the firelight. “Do you think that’s fair?”

Amrod rolled his eyes. “You expect me to be fair, now! Oh, all right. He and Maglor took Himring and the Gap, while we sheltered behind them and Caranthir for years. It probably is our turn.”

“I’m concerned about Maedhros,” Amras admitted. “It’s not like him to leave us to get on with it. You’d think he’d be here, making suggestions and poking his nose in. Or at least sending letters.”

Amrod huffed out a breath. “If he needs a rest, I can understand that.”

“Yes. Let’s hope that’s all it is.” Amras drained his cup.

Fëanor spent years in Amrod and Amras’s lands, restlessly patrolling the long hill-wall of the Andram. Sometimes he ventured north as far as the fords of the river Aros: an unsleeping guardian against the evils out of Nan Dungortheb and Taur-nu-Fuin, that now too often came straying south at night.

But he watched, also, for any small group that might still be wandering in the wide lands South of Doriath, carrying the Silmaril.