Taming the Wildflower by Sulriel

---

~ 509 First Age ~ ‘Make the World Go Away’

Do you remember when you loved me
Before the world took you away
Well if you do, then forgive me
And make the world, make it go away

 ~ Elvis Presley

---

Rhavloth paced the empty lodge. The memories filled her, she saw him in every room, felt the warmth of his touch running up her belly to cup her breast, the tickle of his breath beneath her ear… the taste of the forge in his sweat on her lips.

The horror of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad sickened her, but the years since – she cherished every moment she'd had him at her side. Their time had been too short, much too short.

She found herself at his forge and wrapped herself in his discarded tunic as she sank to curl on a bench against the wall, fighting her own mind against the regret of the time they had lost.

Thirty-thousand, eight hundred and ninety-four days she'd held herself apart from him – the memory now more painful than each day had been as she lived it. For three hundred and twenty-two days they'd lived for what few scattered seasons they could steal secreted away in this lodge. Although their daughter had delighted them, as her own young daughter now continued to do.

Rhavloth swallowed another twinge of regret that she hadn't insisted each time he shrugged, claiming the time wasn't right to say he was more than a reclusive smith; that his daughter didn't know the great things he'd done, that her raising had taught her only half of who she was.

Less then 40 years they'd had together, pretending they were married. Until Cáno came. The two brothers had talked through the night, of their Oath, of their brothers, of Dior and the jewel he kept; and ridden away in the dawn, both of them stiff, grim and hard-eyed.

A sob rose in her throat and choked her. For all the time that had been lost, the time that would be lost – she swallowed the sob and dried her eyes. She would not, she could not, return to skulking and hiding and having him only when other duties released him. That time was passed. She would stand at his side regardless of his ranting of her honor.

He had duties, Nelyo told her before he left, as he'd said so many times before. But he'd stopped and turned a final time before he mounted his charger. "I'll send a courier," he assured her. "If Dior will meet with us, I can leash my brothers." He pulled her close and tangled his fingers in her hair, kissing her deep as though he made love to her one last time. He held her, his lips brushing her ear.

"If he will give it into my hand, if our people can mingle… perhaps there will be hope again in the strength of Eldar."

Throwing off the tunic, Rhavloth rose and returned to the lodge to prepare to ride to Menegroth. She must talk with her sister. Dior was proud she knew – too proud perhaps. But her sister – it was past time Nimloth knew – knew Nelyo, time that she knew Maedhros. Nimloth would listen, she would understand. Melian had urged Thingol to give up the jewel. Dior would listen better to Nimloth.

#

Rhavloth left her empty lodge at dusk and rode alone under the stars though the woodlands of Doriath, yet before dawn hoofs sounded behind her, running hard. Nelyo called out her name and she reined in her mare so he could catch her.

Anger lined his face, wary resolve shadowed in his eyes. She'd never known him as a prince or a king, or even as a great lord; and she might not have known him, in the first instant's glimpse, if she hadn't already heard her name from his lips. Why was he dressed for battle? Remounts had galloped alongside, they circled and snorted before they stopped.

Nelyo swung down from his charger, grabbed her mare's bridle and pulled Rhavloth from the saddle only to toss her up on the fresher mount. "This one's faster," he pointed, "that one more steady. Ride hard. Do not rest them. Fetch our daughter and her daughter. Do not tarry. Return to the lodge, and do not leave there."

His hand lingered on her arm and he bit off what else he might say. Did he remember, as she did… the burn of steel through her flesh echoing in the memory of her foresight?

"Do not tarry! Return with them to the lodge, and do not leave there." He kissed her hard before he remounted. "Ride!" He motioned her down the trail, hesitating only long enough to see her turn her mount's head toward Menegroth before he spurred his own mount to the north.

#

“…and Celegorm stirred up his brothers to prepare an assault upon Doriath…."

~ The Silmarillion, Of the Ruin of Doriath. (JRRT)

#

Maedhros stood amidst the carnage, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, trying to clear his head, trying to manage the anger and disgust that filled him.

His vision tunneled and focused with the braggart's obscene laughter.

"We left the mewling brats for the wolve – uuz…" Celegorm's captain's eyes widened in surprise at the sword in his gut; Maedhros twisted the blade before he yanked it back.

What did it mean that he felt more satisfaction in that one kill than all the others together?

Maglor stood beside him, the Ambarussa were near, wrapping each other's wounds. Celegorm lay dead, by Dior's hand. As did Curufin. Beside Dior lay Nimloth, she would have been his sister. How would he return to Rhavloth? If his guts were strewed in the gore he wouldn't have to face her with this.

They hadn't meant to fight, to kill, only to take the boats. They only defended themselves when the Teleri tried to drive them back, at the start.

They hadn't come to Menegroth to kill, they'd only come for the jewel… but they had come unannounced, with swords drawn.

Why had the Sindar faced them, fought them? Why wouldn't they retreat?

He tried to remember his last sight of Caranthir and couldn't.

The jewel had escaped them.

All those who died – they'd covered the escape of the few with the Silmaril. Dior's daughter? But not his sons, the young princes, kings now.

Mewling brats… Dior's sons. Rhavloth's now. His. His sons now. He had raised twins before, he would again.

"The children have no part of this," Maedhros said. "No part of holding the Silmaril from us, they should have no part of this doom. We took their father, we will replace him."

Maedhros spun on his heel, Maglor followed close at his side, out of the throne room and up through the caverns. He closed his mind as he strode through the gore. His folk and hers, mingled – it's not what he intended.

As he approached the gate, his step faltered and froze. His gaze locked on a hilt – he knew that sword – he'd made it with his own hand. His heart stuttered and stopped, his chest clenched and his lungs refused to draw breath. Blackness loomed to swallow his mind.

The pain – a hard grasp on his arm, the strong hand of a harper, his brother.

On the ground before him, blood-splattered, the splayed fingers of a delicate white hand touched the hilt… a spray a dark hair, braided with copper beads… Rhavloth.

Maglor yanked his arm and spun him around. "She is gone," Maglor said. "The twins may still live."

"What of my daughter?" Maedhros' world loomed and receded. His brothers dead, Rhavloth… "What of her daughter, my granddaughter?"

"There are no Sindar left in the Thousand Caves."

How did Maglor keep his voice strong and even? Yet the pain showed in his eyes and the lines of his face. "Any that live are gone from this place."

It seemed he tried to say it kindly, as a comfort. Certainly, he was right. They'd found few to take to the healers. The Sindar had fought through injuries that would heal, falling only with mortal wounds. And those had already been killed cleanly. His daughter wouldn't have fallen with a simple wound. If she lived, she was safely away. If not, as Maglor said, it may be the twins still did.

Maedhros regathered the husk that had been his heart and tucked it away. Rhavloth had known, they had both always known, that the Oath would come between them. Would she wait for him in Mandos' Halls, if he could gain that place? He loved her and he had failed her, and the Oath still bound him. She had loved him, she had known how dearly he held his honor, and she had understood that he would keep his word above all things. Did she still understand?

He shook his head as if the action could toss the thoughts out of him. "Gather the host away from this place," he said to Maglor. "I'll meet you in camp when I have recovered the young sons."

#

#

Rhavloth waited as the newly dead streamed past her. It was impossible to know if it was an instant or an eternity between one and the next. An Age or a day, it made no difference. Others waited also, searching the arrivals for loved ones they hoped not to find. Sometimes there were only a few with her near the gates, but there was usually at least one other. She had, in time, turned to him. He was so like her Nelyo that it made her ache, yet unlike enough that it was bearable to be near him.

“I know you,” she said to him, but he had not replied, only watched her face for what seemed an age. The hesitation seemed oddly out of place in such strong features, but he had finally nodded to her. When he smiled, when he spoke, she knew how so many had followed him on the strength of his words.

“Telufinwë told me who you waited for.” His voice held acceptance of her. They waited together without speaking again, for there was nothing to be said that would not bring more pain.

And then she saw him.

Nelyo entered the Halls. He stopped and stood just inside the gate, his gaze running over those who waited, until it met hers. And he waited. She'd never seen him uncertain.

She ran to him, crying his name, and clung to him. His arms wrapped her tightly and they stood in that timeless place with his face buried in her hair.

Feanor waited to come forward until Maedhros looked up to meet his gaze.

“I honored the Oath and it has been laid to rest,” Maedhros told his father. “There is another I will take now, if they allow it in these Halls or no, to keep this treasure I hold in my arms. I will not be parted from her again.”