Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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Oath Forsworn

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Maglor travelled widely, in the years after the ruin of Doriath, visiting the small settlements of the Noldor that still remained, scattered through Ossiriand and in the foothills of the Ered Luin.  They had no strength to hold an army back, but where Maglor went, hearts were raised, and hope came back to the hearts of the defenders.  He carried a harp again now, a small one, strung with gold and light enough to carry slung over a shoulder.

The Dwarves had ransacked the strongrooms and treasure chests of Menegroth, but the Thousand Caves had still been rich with the works of years of peace when the Sons of Fëanor came there. They had taken little from Menegroth, but Maglor had taken the harp.

Fëanor was unsure himself if Maglor thought the hope he spread was real, but it did not really matter.  The effect was the same.

But when Fëanor’s travels brought him back again to the small fortress of Amon Ereb, he found, more often than not, Maedhros and what was left of his immediate household there. Maedhros had almost stopped travelling through those parts of the Fëanorian lands that were not yet overrun. Fëanor’s heir rarely visited the remaining outposts of the Noldor, concealed in the woods and hidden hills.

Unlike his brothers, Maedhros had never been greatly interested in the crafts of the hand. He had always been more interested in the arts of the mind: languages, philosophy, the theory of aesthetics, shaping the world through word and thought.

But now, Maedhros was focussing all his considerable energy and talent on the art of hand and eye, leaving little time for anything else. Maedhros was making paintings upon the walls and ceilings of Amon Ereb. Small scenes, most of them, for all that the colours caught the eye. A garden in Tirion upon Túna, in the cool silver light of Telperion, grey with dew. Elf-children in red coats playing by the Lesser Fountain near the court of the King. A cat under a flowering cherry tree on the outskirts of Valimar. A baker making pastries by a window that looked out towards the golden glow of Laurelin.

No great adventures, no mighty heroes, weapons or battles. No new techniques either, merely a wistful delicacy of touch.

For two years, Maedhros sat at Amon Ereb and made paintings. Word of the fall of Gondolin reached them. Fëanor had thought it might stir him to some action, when young Gil-galad, Fingon’s heir, was declared king, but Maedhros seemed content to have given up the kingship of the Noldor forever.

Fëanor began to worry that Maedhros might be another of his sons who had somehow gone wrong. But there was time, for Maedhros. Sometimes it was good to devote a few years of time to the works of hand and eye. Morgoth had built up his forces by waiting, after all, and there was no way that Fëanor could see to stage another attack on him just yet.

He changed his mind when word came up at last from the Mouths of Sirion. Noldor out of Thargelion and Himlad had fled South as the lands turned darker, and some had come to the hidden Havens that Círdan had built there by the river. Some of them still held to their old allegiances, and sent news and supplies north to the Fëanorian forces.

The word came from them that Dior’s little daughter, the child Elwing, had been seen in the Havens of Sirion. She had, by all accounts, grown swiftly, taking after her human kin, and was now, the tale went, a child tall and graceful, looking older than her nine years. But there was no doubt of her identity at all, for about her neck, by all reports, she wore openly a jewel that shone with a great light familiar to all who remembered the Trees and the Light of Aman. It could only be the Silmaril.

Fëanor’s sons gathered together again, Maglor from Ossiriand across the river, Amras out of the wide woods of East Beleriand and Amrod from the hill-wall of Andram. Maedhros was there to receive them.

“I will not,” Maedhros said to his brothers, in the high chamber in Amon Ereb, looking out of the window at the green hills through a grey veil of April rain. His face was closed and dark. “Not after Doriath. We are accursed, all we do goes amiss. We are further now from regaining the Silmarils than we were when the ships burned at Losgar! No more. I will not pursue the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion. Nor will you. ”

“But the oath binds us,” Amras said, uncertain, “Be he foe or friend we swore. I do not think we can refuse it now.”

“He!” Maedhros said. “Not she! We swore, thinking that we were swearing to oppose the Black Enemy of the World, perhaps the Valar who might seek to take them by force, to resist unknown kings and princes of Middle-earth, perhaps. I never imagined that we would be sworn to attack an orphan girl, nine summers old! I refuse to do it. I forswear the Oath!”

There was a tense silence in the high room where the paintings filled the walls and ceiling. Only the hissing of the rain outside the window could be heard. Fëanor could barely hear it over the sound of the flame of his own spirit, burning furiously. How could Maedhros betray him like this? Worse than Celegorm’s lust and Curufin’s cowardice, Maedhros’s betrayal burned like a whip. Fëanor leant his will against Maedhros, and tried to subtly encourage it in a different direction. It was like trying to encourage the mountain’s root to move. Maedhros’s will was granite.

Maglor ran his fingers gently across his harp, breaking the silence, and looked across at his eldest brother.

“ Woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth...,” he sang softly, half under his breath.

Maedhros strode across the room, reached out with his remaining hand and stilled the strings. “Darkness dooms us anyway, if we cannot take the Silmarils from Morgoth,” he said.

“You’ll get no objection to that from me,” Maglor said. “My hands have enough blood on them from Doriath.”

“Will you write again to demand the Silmaril, at least? To the child Elwing? Or to Idril and this Man, Tuor, that she has married? One of them must surely have some sense!” Amras said, although he did not sound as though he believed it.

“You could try young Gil-galad. He is supposed to be the High King. For what little that still means,” Amrod added from the other side of the finely-carved black oak table.

Maedhros shot Amrod an annoyed look. “I have no desire to claim the kingship. In any case, Elwing is not of the Noldor. Gil-galad has no authority to command her, even if he would do so at my request. But no, I shall not write. Why would she choose to return the Silmaril, when her father did not? I said I shall forswear the Oath, and I mean it.”

“It was our father’s Oath! And his dying wish!” Amrod’s eyebrows were raised and his voice was harsh. At least one of Fëanor’s sons seemed to still remember why they had come to Middle-earth in the first place.

“Do you think I have forgotten? Our father did not foresee this. Do you think that he would have wished his sons to become child-murderers?” Maedhros’s voice was bitter, and Fëanor hesitated, remembering kinder and gentler times.  It was true that once he would have thought it shameful to call a child an enemy.

Amrod hesitated too. “Do you demand we also forswear the oath?”

“No,” Maedhros said, taking his seat again, and lounging back idly, almost as though he had suddenly lost interest in the conversation. “I am not ordering you to break your word. But if you want my advice, I would say, wait. Taking the jewel at the Havens would cut off supplies from the South. And it brings us no closer to the two that are still in Angband.”

Amrod glared at him. Maedhros met his eyes, levelly. Then Amrod deliberately looked away, looking first at his twin, and then at Maglor. What he saw in their faces, seemed to decide him. He let out his breath explosively. “Very well. I will not forswear my Oath, but... there is no advantage in rushing to attack the Havens. And Elwing is a child, as you say. She may come to greater wisdom as she grows older.”

“It doesn’t seem to have worked that way for us,” Maedhros said, wryly. “But let us wait, and hope.”

Fëanor almost revealed himself then. He looked upon Maedhros, and remembered that he had been the only son who had stood against him, when he had commanded the ships burned at Losgar. It would be easy now to reveal his spirit to Maedhros, to force him to understand through the example of his own burning flame, why forswearing the Oath was such a terrible betrayal. Finwë had died for the Silmarils. Surely Maedhros had not forgotten his grandfather’s death?

But... Maedhros, it had turned out in the end, had been right, at Losgar. It was infuriating, but then, Fingolfin was infuriating too, and in the end he had hurt Morgoth more than anyone else had managed to do, even any of the Valar. Tulkas had merely chained Melkor: it was Fingolfin who had wounded him. There was no point ignoring the truth simply because it was irritating.

More than that, if Fëanor chose to reveal himself now, then it was clear that he would have to take control. He would have to force Maedhros’ will to submit, for he would not be guided.

There would be no going back from that. It was the kind of thing that Morgoth would do: to compel his allies into unwilling obedience by the force of his own will.

That was never something that Fëanor had wanted; the one thing he had never been prepared to do. Taking not just life, but free will. Compelling obedience by force instead of inspiring it by choice. No. He would not do it.

At the back of his mind, there was an uneasy feeling. He glared at it, until he had understood it. Then he saw that Maedhros might be right. There were three Silmarils to be saved. Two of them were in the hands of his true enemy, a worthy foe for a prince of the Noldor. One was not. An attack on an orphan girl was not something that Fëanor had ever anticipated, any more than Maedhros had.

All the same, he did not care to look at Maedhros at the moment. Forswearing the Oath itself... He was not at all happy about that. Fëanor left Amon Ereb and went North at speed, across the grassy plains of East Beleriand, dark now under heavy rainclouds that hid the sky, north towards the cold, the smell of evil and of ash.

Out through what had once been the hills of the March of Maedhros, past the gutted ruin of Himring onto the blackened fields of ash of the Anfauglith. Dark smoke from the pits of Thangorodrim hung low over the northern sky, mingling with the heavy clouds, and the will of Morgoth curled darkly through the very soil. A thin, cold rain was beginning, but it could not wash the shadow away.

On the far horizon, dark against the Western sky which was fading red now towards the unseen Sea, the three peaks of Thangorodrim stood, as strong and impregnable as they had been when Fëanor had first seen them, towering above the hidden gate of Angband, behind which Morgoth hid, governing more and more of Beleriand from within the iron prison that he had built for himself. The Enemy’s shadow reached out far beyond Thangorodrim now, swirling right across the plain, and off into the hills of Dorthonion and out towards Lothlann.

But Fëanor had thought and studied since first he had encountered the shadow of his Enemy that was so clear to his spirit-eyes. He had strengthened himself, calling on certain elements of air and water to form an armour that the shadow crawled around, but could not pass through. He took a sombre pleasure in seeing how effectively it worked. It allowed him to pass over the scorched plain, to dare the cold that struck harsh against the spirit, and draw near even to the gates. There was no point in attempting another attack on them, yet he lingered for a while, considering them and his enemy.

Was he happy there, behind his iron gates, among the hideous creatures he had bred? Was he glad to know himself hated and feared, a master of unhappy slaves and rebellious servants?

Morgoth still had a pair of Silmarils to decorate his crown. Fëanor’s Silmarils. He could see them, in his mind’s eye, shining against the darkness of the halls of Angband above the angry, miserable face that he still remembered so clearly from long ago.

The way the gems were made, holding and magnifying the light of both the Trees of Valinor at the height of their glory, must make wearing them a constant agony to one whose essence was composed of endlessly-moving shadows.

Why? Fëanor said silently, drawing as close to the gates as he dared, without imperilling his own essence. Does it still seem worth it to you, to have these jewels that must be a living agony upon your brow? Do you still take pride in your revenge, that you killed my father and stole my greatest work? You have built a great fortress, it is true. But is it a work that has brought you delight?

No answer came from his enemy, but as he turned away at last, a familiar voice spoke to him.

"It doesn’t delight him," it said. "There is little that delights him any more. How strange, that you should come here to ask him that."  It was the voice he remembered hearing long ago on these plains, when Fingolfin had called out Morgoth to fight, and Morgoth had come to meet him. Fëanor whipped around, looking cautiously all about him. He had no desire to be trapped again, even temporarily.

What do you want? he asked it, warily, holding his sword ready.

"Oh, nothing you haven’t already done. War in Beleriand, dissention between my master’s enemies. Fear and distrust among those who oppose him. All that sort of thing."

Fëanor looked suspiciously around. He thought he could pick out the figure that was speaking, although it was dim and hard to see. You are a being of power. Not a Balrog. Something less wild...

"Oh, I’m very ordered. Too ordered, I’m often told. Too neat, too obedient. So here I am, disobeying His command, to speak to you. Disobeying just a bit. Because that’s what He wants... You wouldn’t understand that, of course. You’re too much like Him."

I’m like Morgoth? Fëanor recoiled at the thought. I most certainly am not.

"Oh, but you are. Give you stone, you’ll burn it, give you light, you’ll freeze the wave into a solid. Give you orders, you disobey them and bring the house down behind you and not even notice that the pillars are falling. It is so fascinating to watch. Like Morgoth in miniature, caught in Middle-earth as a crystal, like one of your own gems. Still burning, still casting long shadows."

That is not me. Fëanor said with certainty. I am a maker. I am not a bringer of chaos and death. I only want what is mine. That and my freedom.

‘"That and my freedom’,"  the voice repeated thoughtfully . "And will you also pour yourself into your freedom until you are lost, and become a pale shadow of what you were? "

I don’t know what you mean.

The other voice laughed. "I feel I’ve had this conversation before, it said. Look around you, Fëanor son of Finwë. Look well on the desert of gasping dust, on the hill of the slain. Has your work brought you delight?"

You are one of Aulë ’s people, those who betrayed him, Fëanor said with increasing certainty. What are you trying to make me do? I will not serve any Vala, be he dark or light.

"I don’t need to make you do anything ", the voice said. "You do it all yourself."

Fëanor turned and went away, without replying. There was nothing to be achieved by this conversation. At the back of his mind, the Oath shifted uneasily as he moved South, away from Angband. It seemed to Fëanor that it gripped him now more closely than it had done in the beginning.

He could feel his connection to the two Silmarils still in Angband, echoing through him. The essence of them, hallowed long ago by Varda and set now in a crown of black iron, still called to him. For the first time since he had made them, as he moved across the dead plains, strewn with bones, he wondered if that was wholly a good thing. Yet the Oath was his . He would not be controlled by it. Nor would he be manipulated by any servant of Morgoth.

Fëanor looked speculatively at the Oath, as he travelled south past the ruins of Himring. He had made it too well, that was the trouble with it. It clung tight, and would not let go. He was surprised that it had been possible for Maedhros to forswear it. It was, after all, designed to prevent exactly that.

* * * * * * *

Fëanor did not see Maedhros again for twenty years of the Sun. Beleriand was growing darker. The shadow of Morgoth was spreading south, and there was much to do. The few Elves left in Thargelion, Doriath, East Beleriand and Northern Ossiriand were fleeing from the shadow, and where they had lived the shadow came, and with it, beasts of the dark places, and orcs.

The Shepherds of the Trees had long defended Ossiriand, but now the limb-lithe trees were troubled, and the Shadow lay deep upon the wooded streams. Twisted roots stretched out black and bitter to catch any living thing that might pass. The forests became increasingly places of darkness and dread. At night, the stars were often hidden, and things dead and yet not unliving moved among the trees.

Amras and Amrod patrolled tirelessly along the Andram Hills, and north even to what had once been the borders of Doriath, and the darkness fled their bright eyes and swords. Fëanor aided them: there were no spirits of the dead to rival him, and the beast and orcs feared his spirit-sword, but still it was a huge frontier to hold with a handful of people. It was fortunate Morgoth had not come that way in strength, at least not yet.

Maglor, with a small group of friends to help him, harped his way along the River Gelion, and where his song was heard, the shadows and monsters fled. But not for long.

And yet, when Fëanor came at last again to Amon Ereb, west out of the greenwood, it was midsummer, and the grass grew long and green in the sun between the River Gelion and the Andram hills, studded with white flowers like stars. The wind was blowing up from the South, with a hint of the Sea to it, and for once, most of the sky was blue. On the green road that led to the gates, it was almost possible to forget for a little while that Northern Beleriand was controlled by the Black Enemy of all the world, and that the hill of Amon Ereb stood upon a frontier, beyond which lay terror.

Though Nargothrond and Gondolin had fallen, though Himring was deserted and Hithlum forlorn, though Maglor’s Gap lay open and undefended, little Amon Ereb still stood unassailed. It was almost strange, that Morgoth had not yet sent armies here. There were no walls or fortresses any more that stood between Amon Ereb and the might of Angband, yet to look at, it could have been at peace.

But within the gates, there was no peace left any more. The decision to forswear the oath had not been gentle on Maedhros. He was painfully thin now, and his eyes shone fever-bright in a face that was pale and worn, surrounded by a great bush of unkempt red hair. He seemed constantly on the move, fidgeting, walking around aimlessly, or drumming his chewed fingers. Sometimes he looked over his shoulder at something that was not there. Those of his servants and supporters who still remained with their lord watched him with troubled eyes.

His paintings on the walls had changed. They were darker now. They showed the hills and woods of Beleriand in many seasons, but none of the skies were cloudless, and there were no stars. Some of them showed the Sea, troubled and wildly surging, capped with white foam beneath an ominous purple-grey sky. In the shadows in the corners of the paintings, if you looked for them, there were things with eyes and teeth.

Maedhros hurried his brothers up to the tower room, and closed the doors. He shook the handles too, as if he thought the door might not be closed properly, and looked around sharply, his hand on his sword hilt, as if orcs might have somehow slipped into the room when he was not looking.

“I have decided we must attack the Havens of Sirion and reclaim the Silmaril that is there,” he said, abruptly. The others looked at him in startled surprise.

“What?” Amrod said, almost as though he thought he had misheard. “But...I thought we agreed to wait? It was your idea!”

“I was... mistaken.” Maedhros looked abruptly over his shoulder, at nothing.

Maglor asked, gently, “Are you unwell?”

Maedhros gave him a quick glance with those bright, desperate eyes. “It’s following me,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Amras said, as if he knew just what that meant.

“Following you?” Maglor asked

“The Oath. The Oath is following me. It will not let me rest.” Maedhros walked swiftly to the window, and looked again behind him, a quick, reflexive action. He poured himself a cup of the white, fierce spirit that they brewed now from the roots of the white flowers of the plains, and drank most of it in a couple of swallows.

Maglor came over, quietly took the jug from him and poured cups for himself, Amrod and Amras. “It’s following you?” he asked, his face concerned.

“In a form like a black serpent or.. Or a crawling dragon. Something that rustles, and scuttles... I cannot see it, most of the time. It’s behind me. But I can hear it, always there, always watching. I can’t live with it... can’t go on with it there any more. It needs the Silmarils. It will be satisfied with nothing else.”

“I have seen something like that too,” Amras admitted in a low voice. “I think it’s watching me too, sometimes. More if I think about... them. The jewels.”

“Sometimes there is...something, I catch a glimpse of it, just out of the corner of my eye,” Amrod said. “I don’t know what it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is the Oath... I feel my words coming short.” He sat down, abruptly. “ It wants no more words from me, only action. I’ll follow, if you lead us to the Havens.”

“And I,” said Amras, although he looked deeply unhappy.

Fëanor was troubled by their words. The Oath for him did sometimes seem to take on a life of its own, to hold him to a course of action that might otherwise have seemed hard, but he had never seen it as dark. For him it was light, like silver under the light of Telperion, a strength that he could lean on.

“Well, I have seen no scuttling darkness,” Maglor said, and his face was troubled. “But ...I find those words coming into my mouth again, most of all when I would leave them to rest quiet. I find them winding into my songs. The Everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth... When? When does it take us? Have our father and brothers indeed passed to the Halls of Mandos, or...” his voice trailed off. He took a swig from his cup, and made a face. “This stuff is filthy. I take it we have no wine left?”

“Nobody is growing vines any more,” Amras said, swirling the liquid in his cup, and grimacing sympathetically. “You need years of peace for vineyards, I understand.” He looked back at Maedhros. “You cannot see any other way but to attack the Havens? I agree the Silmaril there is by far the easiest of the three to take back, but... it would mean attacking our own. ”

Maedhros twitched and rubbed at the junction where the silver hand he wore joined with the arm. “After Doriath, you can still say that? And have you forgotten Alqualondë?”

Amras scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Who could forget Alqualondë? But it was a misunderstanding. Doriath... You didn’t mean it to happen like that. That wasn’t the plan. It all got out of hand. It was supposed to be over swiftly, and with minimum damage.”

“All we do goes amiss. But the Oath will not let us rest. We can only go on,” Maedhros said. “I tried to let it go. I did. But it will not let go of me.”

Maglor looked uncomfortable. “You really want an attack on the Havens... Are you sure , Maedhros? The place is full of refugees, or so I hear from those who of our people who have been there.  Nahtanion took his wife there, after she was injured, you remember...  It’s not a real city, it’s a sprawling camp. Escaped thralls, the walking wounded of Nargothrond and Gondolin, children of the Sindar, the Noldor and of the Aftercomers. Old men and women, too, very likely. Not to mention those of our own followers who were sent south as children, or because they were otherwise unable to fight... We have no way of knowing where Elwing might be. It would be chaos. Like Doriath over again, but worse. And... we have been protecting their north-east flank. They will have no idea we would turn upon them.”

“It will be chaos,” Maedhros said, and he put his silver hand down heavily on the table. It echoed dully under the impact, like a distant drum. “It will be chaos, and it will bring terror and death to our own people, who have trusted us. But that is what we are sworn to, and... I cannot fight it any more. I cannot. The Oath is hungry to be fulfilled. This is our last chance.”

“At least write to them first,” Amras argued. “Elwing is old enough now to make her own decisions, and she has good advisors. Finarfin’s daughter Galadriel is there with them: she is no fool. Eärendil is said to be wise, for all his youth. They may yet choose to give up the gem and make peace.”

“I doubt it,” Maedhros said. He sounded hopeless, but his eyes were still flicking around the room. “But very well. I will write to her, while we gather our people and prepare for battle. The Havens may be undefended, but Círdan will come to their aid from Balar when he hears what we have done, and Gil-galad still has forces in Nan-tathren of the willows. We will have to come at them out of Taur-im-Duinath, and build boats to make the crossing of the Sirion.” He went to a chest and began pulling out maps.

“But you will write first?” Maglor asked.

Maedhros glanced sharply over his shoulder, and winced, rubbing at his neck. “Yes, yes of course. But if they refuse...”

“If they refuse, I’ll follow you,” Maglor admitted, hunching miserably over his cup.

The letter that came back from young Elwing and her new husband Eärendil was short and firm. The Silmaril was a blessing upon their new house of mingled Men and Eldar, and they would not surrender it.

“A blessing, she calls it!” Maedhros said, despairing, when he read the letter, and went back to studying maps.