Sirion by Grundy

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Oathkeepers

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Elwing was pleased that her hands did not tremble as she dressed herself as the queen that she was, however reduced her realm. She fastened the Silmaril, the cause of all her losses over the years, about her neck, smiling slightly at her young handmaiden’s impressed ‘oh!’ as she beheld her wearing the cursed jewel openly for the first and last time.

No matter what fringe benefits they had brought to those they derided as moriquendi, the hard truth was that the Noldor hadn’t come to Beleriand for any other reason but the jewels of Feänor. For those jewels his sons would slaughter any who stood in their way, elf or man, adult or child. For all their posturing, though, it had been Elwing’s grandparents who retrieved a Silmaril from the Enemy, not the sons of Feänor.

It had been paid for in blood all the same – their quest had claimed the life of Finrod Felagund. Galadriel could not bear to look on the jewel knowing her brother had died for it, that their cousins had betrayed him to his death. Not even the last light of the blessed Trees was as wonderful in her eyes as her beloved eldest brother.

“Even had they retrieved all three, it would have been a bitter price,” she had murmured the first time she saw the Silmaril Elwing had carried all that long, cold way from Doriath to the sea.

Elwing, being somewhat more romantic than the princess of the Noldor, liked to think that Finrod died for love and honor, not just for a jewel.

But the Silmaril of Luthien had not been done its grisly work. Finrod’s death wasn’t enough. It had claimed Elwing’s parents, her brothers, and much of the folk of Doriath with them when the sons of Feänor, the Kinslayers, descended on Menegroth. That was why Elwing couldn’t bear to look on it. Like Galadriel, she no longer saw light and wonder in its depths, only ruin and death.

And now it would claim one more, one that escaped it last time its maker’s sons had come calling – Elwing herself. She wondered if that would be enough to satisfy the bloodthirsty bauble at last.

The scouts had returned that morning at dawn, riding so fast and hard that one horse had died on the way and another had to be put down by the stable master. Normally such treatment of animals would be anathema to the Sindar. But they had been desperate to reach Sirion ahead of the remaining Feänorions and their forces, to give the warning. To buy what time they could for their people to escape.

They were survivors of Menegroth, and knew all too well what to expect from the Kinslayers.

Nor did Elwing believe for a moment that Maedhros, Maglor, and Amras were only coming to parley as they claimed in their last letter. One did not bring an army to a peaceful meeting.

When they had first written in the spring, demanding the Silmaril, she had known better than to send them a bald refusal. Though she had no intention of surrendering the despised jewel to them, she also knew she was at a disadvantage in any contest of arms. The folk of Sirion were few, primarily refugees of Gondolin and Doriath, a handful of survivors from Nargothrond, and a few Nandor who had joined them.

The warriors of those elven cities had fallen in their defense, their weapons lost with them. The refugees had too much need of food, shelter, clothing, and other necessities of life to turn their thoughts to rearming immediately. Even once they did, outfitting themselves properly for their own defense was problematic.

Sirion was not rich in metals, nor smiths to work them. Gil-Galad could spare only so much from the defense of Balar, especially given the limited value of what they could provide him in recompense – and the Sindar of the settlement did not want to be in debt to the king of the Noldor. There were fewer swords than grown elves, not that all here would know how to wield them; arrows used in the hunt were salvaged from game carcasses for reuse.

The walls of Sirion were strong, but Elwing knew from bitter experience that trusting in their walls had never saved the elves of Ennor. The only walls that held were the ones the Valar have erected around their own lands. The elven strongholds have fallen, one by one.

She remembered all too well the flight from Menegroth, in the harshness of a fell winter, frightened and bereft - of all her once numerous kin, only Celeborn had been with her. Galadriel had joined them later, carried in wounded by Oropher. The older elleth had never spoken to Elwing of what she had seen in the halls she had stayed behind to defend until there had been nothing left worth defending.

Elwing had replied to Maedhros’ first letter requesting more time. Her husband was at sea, and she knew perfectly well that by the mores of the golodhrim, he was accounted lord of Siron. Never mind that she was queen in her own right, or that the Sindar had never subscribed to the practice the Noldor brought with them of giving precedence to sons before daughters and husbands before wives. Perhaps that is why Galadriel chose to marry a prince of the Sindar rather than of the Noldor.

The second letter had come in the first days of autumn, the demand for the Silmaril repeated with greater urgency. Elwing had again replied in a way that should have been acceptable to the golodhrim, had they not been set on violence. A handful of seasons was nothing in the eyes of the elves. And by their own customs, it was only right and proper that Maedhros and his brothers should wait until Eärendil- not only her husband but their kinsman- returned, and treat with him.

They waited only for winter.

She has ordered her gates closed and barred, the walls manned, those too young or otherwise unable to bear arms sent across the river to flee to the forests of Arvenien carrying what food and clothing they could lay hands on at short notice, and all that can be done to make ready the defense of the town to be done. But she knew with chilling certainty that it will not be enough. Her only hope lay to the west, with Cirdan and Gil-galad. She was queen of the Sindar, and her duty was to her people – she will sacrifice her pride and bow to the King of the Noldor if that would save them.

But the horizon remained stubbornly clear of any sail, and she had realized with chilling certainty that if she could not see them yet, they would not reach her in time. That was when her decision had been made. It is more than her pride that she will have to sacrifice if her sons are to live. That was the only thing that mattered now.

Nellas, bless her stubborn heart, had tried to argue that there was still time for Elwing to escape with the boys, to join the flight to Arvenien and Cape Balar. But Elwing would have none of it. If she ran, the Kinslayers would chase. That was the way of predators and prey. She would not allow it.

Not only would it be the grossest dereliction of her duty to her people, she knew perfectly well that running could not save her boys from their Feänorion kin. It would only put off the day of reckoning – at best. At worst, she would see her sons slaughtered to compel her to give up the jewel. And she will not hand the Kinslayers that which they desire above all else. Too much of her family’s blood, her people’s blood, has been shed for that.

No, she had a plan that will keep her boys much safer. If both she and her thrice-damned Silmaril are forever beyond their reach, the sons of Feänor will have no reason to pursue the sons of Eärendil.

Well she knew the words of their terrible oath, for Galadriel had made sure that she did, that she would understand the danger of her inheritance.

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal him ere Day's ending

She has indeed hidden, hoarded, and in her hand taken her grandparents’ Silmaril, the last thing her father had ever given her. By the terms of the Oath, her life is already forfeit, even if she were to send the jewel away. So let it be - but she will see to it that they gain no Silmaril this day all the same.

She garbed herself in robes of state, as the queen that she was rather than the wife of a minor lord they hold her to be. She had not armed herself. She is no Kinslayer, nor will she be.

Her handmaiden followed her loyally to her throne room, and made to take up a position that would put her between Elwing and the invaders, but that Elwing will not allow either. She wished to save what she could, however little it might be.

She shook her head.

“No, Glinwen,” she said firmly. “I thank you with all my heart for your years of loyal service to myself and my sons. But I must dismiss you now.”

“Please, my queen,” the stricken elleth whispered. “Do not send me away.”

Glinwen was not much younger than her queen- an orphan, born on the long trek to Sirion. Her father had fallen defending Menegroth. The early birth in the hardest part of that bitter winter had left her mother weak, and despite the child, she had faded like a leaf in autumn. She was the first elf Elwing had seen fade, but not the last. It was almost a comfort to realize she will never have to see it again.

The babe had been raised in the same household as Elwing. But Elwing, with her mixed blood, came to maturity much faster, more as a woman of the Edain would. Glinwen was scarcely a youth when Elwing’s sons were born. Elwing had named the girl a handmaiden as much to have another young elf around her children as for any true service Glinwen could render. Her ‘service’ until now had consisted mainly of amusing the boys at formal dinners and seeing them safe to bed on nights when duty kept Elwing from doing so herself.

“I do not send you anywhere, my dear,” Elwing said, feeling suddenly tired and old despite her youth, and wondering how in the name of the Starkindler Lalwen has managed to go on through so many years and so many deaths. “I ask you to leave, that you may live. I do not wish you to die on my account, and still less on account of a jewel- would that it were never made!”

“But it is so beautiful,” the girl protested, wonder in both face and voice as she gazed on it.

“And the cause of so much suffering and loss,” Elwing replied grimly. “I will not have it cause yours as well. You know as well as I do what we may expect from Fëanorions.”

Indeed, she could already hear the first screams from the town. Her warriors were no match for the hardened soldiers Maedhros commanded. This is the first time most of them have been asked to fight other elves. They do so only to buy time for the others to escape. She has asked them not to fight to the bitter end – only to buy what time they can before fleeing themselves.

“I would follow you wherever you go, my queen. Is there nothing else I can do?” the girl begged.

Elwing sighed, and took the girl's hands in her own.

Where I am going, no follower, however loyal, will be of aid or comfort to me.

“Glinwen, please, I beg you, do not remain here. If you will not go for your own sake, or even for mine, then please, for the love you bear Elrond and Elros, go! The only folk of Balar my sons will know are my uncle and his wife. All will be new and strange to them. Elrond and Elros are very fond of you. They will be happier if you are with them. ”

Glinwen blinked back tears, and nodded.

“Go now, dear Glinwen, with my blessing,” Elwing said gently, hoping the girl would obey.

To Elwing’s great relief, she did. Her first steps were slow, almost against her will, but then she fled, the sound of weeping drifting back in her wake.

Elwing straightened and moved to the windows, throwing them open. The compound her people call her ‘palace’, laughable though the title is by the standards of Menegroth, sits atop a cliff. The throne room runs right up to the face of the cliff, with stunning views of the sea – and a sheer drop from the windows, hundreds of feet.

It will be more than enough to kill her. And more importantly, she knows that the water below is deep and the currents treacherous. The sons of Fëanor will not recover her body or her Silmaril.

The noise continued unabated outside, and Elwing could not help but shudder at the screams. Her loyal warriors were far too young to be dying. Just as she herself was. Her people had whispered at her marrying and having children at her tender age, but now she was glad she had. She will at least leave the world – and her husband – something more to remember her by than merely her death.

She stared out the window to sea, wondering where her beloved is now, and how long Lalwen and Nellas will have to hide with the boys before it will be safe for them to make their way to her uncle. Celeborn and Galadriel will care for her children until their father returns for them. She must believe he will return, that the Sea has not claimed him too.

The bang of the doors being thrown open startled her, but only enough to make her turn in surprise. She had not expected it to go so quickly. Was it even mid-day yet? She had hoped for longer, for her sons and for her people.

So soon…

She was unsurprised to see that it was Maedhros in the lead, his brothers a pace behind. More unexpected was that all three looked pristine, unstained by blood. Had her people really been so overpowered that these three have not even needed to raise their own swords?

“Queen Elwing,” Maedhros greeted her with a curt nod. “I implore you to hand over the Silmaril before there is any further bloodshed.”

The commotion outside has not stopped. Indeed, she could hear it within her own house now. Elwing cannot believe that the man before her thinks it is still in his power to stop the dying. Sirion’s defenders, outmatched though they may be, are as steadfast as loyal Glinwen. Despite her plea, many have chosen to fight to the death.

“And if I do not?” she asked.

Her voice did not shake any more than her hands had earlier. Her sons were safely away and she already knew how this was to end, so what was left for her to fear?

His hand moved to his sword only with the greatest reluctance. She could see in his eyes that he did not wish this, had long since ceased to desire the Silmaril for its own sake. She had always thought that if Maedhros the Kinslayer found the burden of his Oath lay heavy on him, she would be glad of it. But now she discovered to her surprise that she felt only pity. He might have been great, mighty among his people. Instead, he was reduced to this – and at his father’s behest. What parent would do such a thing to their children?

“Stay your sword, Nelyafinwë Maitimo,” she commanded coldly. “It will not be necessary for you to shed any more blood of the line of Thingol, today or any other day.”

Though he flinched at the use of his given names, there was a weary relief in his face, echoed in the eyes of his brothers.

“Then you will return the Silmaril?” Maglor asked hopefully.

She suppressed a shiver. Even ruined as he was, his voice was still glorious. If there had been no Oath, no blood staining him beyond forgiveness, she should have liked to hear him sing.

She shook her head.

“No, I will not. If you will have the goodness to excuse me, my lords, I must bid you farewell.”

She did not wait for their horrified comprehension. She was out the window before any of them had taken more than a single step.

“Hear me Ulmo, you have always loved the elves. Keep my sons safe - let the Silmaril be forever beyond their reach!”

She felt the pain when she hit the water, and the cold as she sank, refusing to fight, to live, because to live was to doom her children. As the edges of her vision blur and darken, she thinks only of her darling boys, reaching out to their bright little spirits as long as she still could. They will be safe now, Elros and Elrond.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love…