Falling to a Low Place by Ithilwen

| | |

Chapter 1

Falling to a Low Place

...from high places it is easy to fall low. (Sador Labadal, Narn i Hîn Húrin)

I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Almost I wanted to weep when I read the letter. Not that the contents were in any way a surprise, for did the Valar not prophesy this when they issued their Doom against my House? "Their Oath shall drive them... To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well..." They had cursed my House, and me, and it had been foolish to believe even for a moment that the answer I would receive would be anything other than what I now held in my hand. But the heart is often foolish, and in the small part of mine that was not yet wholly numb I had clung to a faint hope that her response to my offer of aid and friendship in exchange for possession of the Silmaril would be favorable. Elwing! Do you so value the gem my father made that you would cast away your people's lives in order to retain it? Surely the daughter of Dior, murdered at my brothers' hands, understands the lengths to which I am required to go to fulfill the terrible oath by which my family is now bound? But I suspect that is problem - she remembers all too well the fall of her childhood home, the slaughter of her parents and brothers. Why would Elwing even consider accepting the friendship of the surviving sons of Fëanor, the murderers of her kin? And even if she were willing to do so, how could she believe the offer genuine, coming as it does from traitors? We who burned the ships at Losgar should not be surprised when our honest proposal is met with suspicion and disbelief. No, there was never any hope that the answer I would receive from her would be other than it is; but that does not lessen my sorrow.

I wish that I could turn away from this path, but there is no release from the oath that my brothers and I swore so long ago in a moment of grief and rage. In our pain and anger, we spoke without thought, invoking the name of Ilúvatar in our madness, and now we are trapped. Vows sworn in His name are binding; our marriage laws clearly show that truth. The bond between husband and wife, bound together in His name, is eternal, save only in cases of permanent separation of one spouse from the other in the Halls of Mandos. And we did not simply call upon Him as witness - no, we called upon Him to cast us into Darkness everlasting should we fail in our task to reclaim the Silmarils, and in our folly we placed no limits on how our vow should be achieved. So now we are caught between two terrible fates - break the oath and be cast into Darkness, or keep the oath and spill innocent blood. Had I more courage, or clean hands, I would slay myself now and be done with it, and let the Darkness take me. But I am afraid. I have experienced a small taste of the Darkness, when I was in Angband under the hands of Morgoth; an eternity of such Darkness is beyond my strength to bear. And my hands are not clean, not after Alqualondë, and certainly not after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when my counsel and leadership destroyed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people; the slaughter at Doriath only further reddened them. They are already so soaked in gore that more will scarcely be noticeable. I will now be forever known as Maedhros Kinslayer, no matter what course I choose. I will not now add the additional epithet of Oathbreaker to my name; one disgraceful epessë is enough.

Footsteps behind me, and a voice - "What does she say?" It is my brother Maglor. Once we were close in love, we two oldest of the sons of Fëanor; now, I do not know how to describe what holds us together - some strange mixture of mutual need, contempt, and pity. Despite my insults and abuse, he stays, perhaps driven by guilt, perhaps out of a need for companionship, however vile. Possibly he finds even my company preferable to a life of loneliness. I do not understand why he does not go to join our youngest surviving brothers, Amrod and Amras, in their wanderings, but he remains by my side for reasons known only to himself. At least his presence, if no comfort, is of some use; he is the hand I lack.

I do not reply to his query; instead, I merely turn to face him and hand him the letter, allowing him to read Elwing's foolish response himself. His face is pale when he looks up, and his eyes appear haunted. Clearly, he knows what is to come, and dreads it; I see the images of Doriath reflected in his gaze. "Perhaps, brother, she can be persuaded to change her mind? Surely she will not throw away everything they have built in their settlement at the mouth of Sirion for a mere jewel, however radiant?" His beautiful voice, though sorrowful, still contains the thinnest thread of hope. My foolish brother, you should know better by now. Have the previous 600 years taught you nothing?

"Everyone who has possessed the Silmaril has persisted in clinging to it, despite the ruination it brings. Why should Dior's daughter be any different than her father?" I reply. "We gave her a chance to end this standoff without bloodshed, indeed to our mutual benefit, and she has flatly rejected the offer. I do not believe that there is any persuasion but the sword that will change her mind. I will send for Amrod and Amras, and begin the necessary preparations." My brother's face fills with pain, but he says nothing. "You do not protest my decision?" I ask him, surprised by his acquiescence.

"No. Would it do any good?" he replies softly.

"No," I say slowly, "no, it would not. We are bound by our oath, and I will see it fulfilled. There are no other options, if we are to keep our sworn word to Ilúvatar, and reclaim what we seek. Maglor, you did not wish to aid us at Doriath; must I compel you to do so now?"

He hesitates for a long moment before reluctantly answering, "No, I will not leave you to do this alone. I will come. And I will hate myself for doing so."

I pause briefly before responding, "Good."

*******

I will never forget the beauty of the morning in the hour before our attack on the Havens of Sirion in fulfillment of our oath. I had divided our forces in two; half were on the western side of the Havens, under the command of Amrod and Amras, while the other half remained on the eastern side under my control. I would not take a chance of the Silmaril being lost to flight; this strategy ensured that there was nowhere for the defenders to go but into the sea. We had moved into position under the cover of darkness, a long forced march beneath a clear sky filled with stars, and now stood just outside of the city, awaiting the sunrise which would signal the beginning of the attack. As the velvety darkness of the night slowly gave way to the soft glow of dawn, I pondered our long decline. Once my people had ruled most of Beleriand, constructing vast and splendid cities - Nargothrond, Gondolin, and many others; now the pitiful remnant of the Noldor clustered in a small town by the edge of the sea, living in simple wooden dwellings. And I, who was once a king leading thousands of soldiers into battle in the Noldor's defense, now stood ready with a ragged army of a few hundred men preparing to destroy my people's last refuge. And all for the sake of an oath! Elwing, I cried silently, why did you refuse my offer, and bring us to this! Father, when you swore your oath, did you have any idea of the destruction that your proud words would birth? The air was crisp and salty, smelling of the sea, and the morning silence hung heavy and still around us - the very world seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation. And then the first rays of the rising sun cleared the trees. For a heartbeat I hesitated, wishing in vain that the moment could be averted, that Elwing would emerge with the Silmaril, and we could lay down our arms and enter Sirion in peace; then, reluctantly, I raised the horn to my lips and blew the note that would signal my brothers to the west and launch our assault on the just-waking city.

And after that there was no time to think, and now I am numbly fighting, leading my troops slowly and inexorably into the heart of the town, towards the home of Eärendil and Elwing, and the Silmaril. Although there is more organized opposition than I had expected (some of those who had previously sworn allegiance to the House of Fëanor defected rather than heed my call to arms against our own people, and afterwards came here to aid in the city's defense), this is still mere butchery, not war. I, who have fought in so many wars, know the difference. But the blood on my sword is just as red today as in the past, when it was so stained in an honorable cause. I remember when I first took up this sword in my hand, in Aman; at Father's insistence, as his distrust of his half-brothers grew, I began to learn the art of combat. I was a diligent student, and soon became skilled, but for all my study remained completely ignorant. Despite all the tales we young ones had heard of the Great Journey and the horrors the Eldar had faced in the endless night before arriving on the shores of Aman and seeing the light of the Trees, bloodshed and violence were unreal to us, merely exciting stories to be told on festival days to remind us of our good fortune. Surely such dire evils could not be real! The innocent youngster who first held this blade in his right hand would never recognize the ruthless man now wielding it to such deadly effect with his left. I have heard whispered rumors that the orcs that Morgoth breeds are descended from my people, Quendi corrupted by his black arts into an unrecognizable form. I believe those stories now, for surely on this day my brothers and I are orcs in all but shape, twisted into monsters by the inexorable consequences of our carelessly spoken words. Those of us whose hröar should die return to Mandos, I was taught, where our fëar will be purified before being reborn again. But that will not be my fate, or the fate of my brothers, should we die today; instead, we will pass into the Darkness like the orcs we are. Will even a Silmaril supply enough radiance to forestall that dreadful fate? I no longer know; I only know that the chain forged by that terrible oath is as strong and unyielding as the one which once bound my wrist to Thangorodrim. I do this because I must, though I loathe it.

We are nearly at the southern edge of the town; Maglor is closest to the dwelling of Eärendil, while I am still east of it. "Find the Silmaril, brother!" I shout, and see Maglor briefly raise his sword in acknowledgement; then I rally my closest men and press on towards the docks to cut off any possible escape by boat that Elwing might attempt, for the isle of Balar lies not far south, and she might in desperation attempt to bring the Silmaril to the remnant of Círdan's people who dwell there. Before we reach the docks we hear a scream, and looking up, I see Maglor's face staring out of a window in horror, and Elwing falling through the air. The home of Eärendil and Elwing stands on the edge of a low cliff overlooking the sea, and she has thrown herself out of the uppermost window, to perish in the pounding waves beneath. As she falls, I hold my breath, for I recognize that flash of light on her breast - the Silmaril. When last I saw that brilliant spark, it was shining from Morgoth's iron crown; now the prize we have fought this massacre for seems doomed to be lost in the surf. I begin to run down the stairs leading to the docks and the beach - I must find her body and recover the jewel, or else this has all been in vain! But as she tumbles into the water there is a sudden blinding flash of light, and a terrible laugh echoes on the air, and I halt in amazement, for where a woman's form entered the ocean, a graceful seabird now rises up from the water, the Silmaril still bound to its breast, and I can but watch as the gull soars out over the open sea and away from my reach. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, has transformed Elwing, and she has fled. And once again, as at Doriath, all of the deaths we have inflicted on our kin have been made meaningless. 'On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East,' I say to myself in bitterness. It is not enough for them to merely curse us; now they openly oppose us to ensure that my brothers and I will never achieve our oath. 'Their Oath will drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue.' For the first time that day, I feel my weariness. I slowly turn to face my men, who have also stood mesmerized by the site of Elwing's sudden transformation, and say "Destroy the docks."

"Lord, what purpose will that serve now?" one of them asks me, confusion on his face. "The battle is over - we will soon be leaving. There is no longer any need to prevent the people of these Havens from fleeing."

"No," I reply, "but I would hinder any reinforcements that might arrive from Balar, and give our men more time to escape. We must assume that we shall be pursued; destroying the docks will deprive Círdan's and Gil-galad's forces of an easy landing site, and buy us valuable time. See that it is done." With that, I turn and slowly ascend the staircase back up to the city. I will avoid a confrontation with Gil-galad at all costs. Not out of fear - for all that he is now considered the High King of the Noldor, he is a mere boy, barely out of his minority and completely untested in battle; I could kill him with ease. But that I know I will never do; I may have it in me to butcher helpless women and children in a futile attempt to fulfill my oath, but I could never bring myself to slay my cousin Fingon's child. We must leave here soon, for when word of this destruction reaches Balar I am certain that Círdan and Gil-galad will come swiftly, and with force.

The fighting has nearly concluded when I reach the top of the stairs; the streets and yards of this simple settlement are filled with the bodies of the dead and dying. There is no time to bury the dead, not if we are to escape to safety, so I give orders that the bodies should be placed inside the wooden buildings; we will burn the settlement when we leave, and thus cremate them. There is nothing we can do for the wounded but move them upstream, where they will be out of the reach of the flames, to wait for eventual rescue or death. I go to Elwing's house in search of Maglor, but find no one; as I leave, one of Amrod's men hurries to my side. "My Lord Maedhros," he says, out of breath from his exertions, "I have been looking for you. Your brothers have been wounded - please come quickly."

No! I protest silently, please no! I have already failed three of my brothers, is their blood not enough to assuage the Valar's anger? Must everyone I love die? For although I try to tell myself that their wounds may not be serious, the words of the Doom keep echoing in my mind - 'For blood ye shall render blood... slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be...' - and I know that my hope is vain. As I follow the soldier to where my brothers are lying, I am dreading what I will find. Maglor and Amrod and Amras, lying pale and still in death...

I am wrong in at least one particular - Maglor is not here. But Amrod and Amras are, and as I kneel down beside them I realize sadly that I arrived too late for one- Amrod is already dead. But Amras still lives, though not for much longer; he has taken a sword thrust to his chest, and is bleeding into his lungs. I can hear the blood rattling in his throat as he struggles to breathe. His eyes are filled with pain, and their light is starting to dim, but when he sees me his face brightens and he tries to raise his head. "Maitimo?" he whispers. I reach down and lift him up, cradling him in my arms, resting his head against my shoulder, as I used to do when he was small. I gently caress his face and hair, the same rich russet as my own, and reply softly, "I am here, Ambarussa. Rest now."

"It hurts," he says, then asks, "Did we get it?"

"Yes," I lie, and watch as he closes his eyes. I continue to hold him, speaking loving words and softly stroking his hair, while he dies; his fëa slips away so quietly that I scarcely notice its passing.

I kneel there for a long, long time, holding my youngest brother's body in my arms, lost in grief and memories. The twins were so young when our mother left, and Maglor and I had assumed much of the responsibility for their care. How energetic and exuberant and mischievous they had been as children, and how innocent! They brought so much joy into our lives then, and though they had long since grown, a part of me had continued to regard Amrod and Amras as more my children than my brothers, the only children I now know I will ever raise. I loved them, and had always sought to protect them, and yet in the end I have failed them both, and now they are lost. Lost to the Darkness.

It is the touch of a hand on my shoulder that finally rouses me, and a voice. "My Lord?" I look up to see the face of the soldier who led me here, compassion in his eyes. My brother's body is growing cold; I lay it down gently, and as I straighten up I am shocked to see how low the sun has dropped in the sky - it is late afternoon now. "See that the bodies of Lords Amrod and Amras are kept together. They were seldom apart in life; I will not see them separated in death," I command him, and he nods silently. I reach over and touch Amras's face one last time, then turn and gently kiss my brother Amrod's forehead; and then I rise to my feet and turn away.

"Where is my brother Maglor?" I ask the soldier, but he does not know. I set off to find him; after nearly an hour of searching, I finally learn that he has gone off into the nearby woods in pursuit of Elwing's children, who apparently fled there during the confusion of the fighting. I am surprised they were not killed before they could reach the shelter of the trees, for few of the inhabitants of the Havens escaped our swords today, but a small part of me is grateful that they did. Too many children have died needlessly on this day as it is. I leave orders with my men to prepare to camp outside the town; we will begin the long march back to Ossiriand at sunrise, I tell them, for tonight we will remain here and rest. Then I set off into the woods, in search of my only surviving brother.

*******

The woods are a dense thicket of scrubby trees and stunted shrubs, in places nearly impassable. Although my woodcraft is not the equal of my dead brother Celegorm's, I was always regarded by my tutors as an adequate tracker; even so, I repeatedly lose my brother's trail in this confusing maze of undergrowth, and am forced to backtrack and begin again. As the time passes, I find myself remembering the last time I went searching through a forest, the pitiful scraps of bloody cloth all I found after my weeks of hunting. These children, I realize, will almost certainly meet the same fate as their unfortunate uncles, for it will surely be a matter of luck if either Maglor or I manage to find them in this tangled mass of vegetation. And the House of Fëanor no longer possesses any luck. It is nearly sunset when I hear, faint in the distance, my brother Maglor's voice, singing. I turn towards the sound, and begin again to force my way through the thickets.

I finally arrive at a clearing containing a small stream running towards the river Sirion, originating from a spring seeping out of a shallow cave. My brother is standing not far from the cave's entrance, speaking gently to two small boys. Eluréd and Elurín, I say to myself at first, shocked at the sight, my brother has found Eluréd and Elurín! But after that first instant, I remember where and when I am. No. Eluréd and Elurín are long dead. These are not Elwing's brothers, but her sons. My brother has succeeded where I once failed. I do not know how to estimate the ages of these strange, half-mortal children, but they are both still quite young. The smallest boy is a toddler, perhaps three years old; the older of the two brothers appears to be five or six. He is keeping his distance, I notice, still wary, but the younger boy seems entranced by my brother's voice, and wanders over to him, giggling; my brother quickly reaches down and scoops the child up into his arms, lifting him up, and laughs. I am suddenly reminded of how he used to carry Amrod and Amras when they were little, and I ask myself, How long has it been since you last heard Maglor laugh? And suddenly I find myself regretting that I must intrude on this fragile moment and shatter it. But I know it cannot last, and so I push my way through the weeds and into the open.

At the sight of me, the older boy steps back and tenses, ready to run; the younger one begins to cry and turns away, pressing his face against Maglor's shoulder. Maglor soothes him, then looks at me, his face pale, and I suddenly realize how I must appear to them, disheveled, filthy, and covered in Amras's blood. "I was told that you went looking for Eärendil's children," I say to him. "I see you've found them. I'm glad." Then I switch to Quenya, so that I may speak privately with my brother, and continue, "Pityafinwë and Telufinwë are both dead, brother. We two are the only sons of Fëanor left alive now."

"Not both of them?" my brother whispers, and I see the tears rise in his eyes. He drops his head, and I see his arms tighten around the child he's holding, as if to prevent him from slipping from his grasp, and I realize that, for that brief moment, it is not Eärendil's son he is hugging. I hate to drag him away from his memories so quickly, but night will soon be falling, and I am anxious for us to return to our camp. "We must leave now," I continue urgently, "and return to our men before it becomes too dark to travel. We will depart for Ossiriand at sunrise - I will risk no encounters with any forces that may arrive from Balar." I then turn and look at the older of Elwing's sons, still standing silent and tense, and switching back to Sindarin, I ask him, "What is you name?"

He does not reply; after a moment Maglor says to me, "His name is Elrond, and his little brother's name is Elros." The boy looks at my brother with a wounded look in his eyes, as though he's been betrayed, but remains silent. "Well, Elrond," I continue, "My name is Maedhros; you've already met my brother Maglor. You and your brother will be coming with us now."

"No," Elrond replies, "I won't go with you. You killed my mother."

"No, I did not," I tell him, "but she, and your father, are gone now, and you and your brother no longer have a home. You are still too young to be alone in this world; if we leave you here, both you and your brother will die. So you will be returning with us. I am not offering you a choice in this matter, Elrond. Come - it's time to head back." I turn away and begin to head back to the Havens, but Elrond remains stubbornly rooted in place; only when my brother Maglor gently asks him, "Would you abandon your little brother, then?" does he finally begin, reluctantly, to walk with us. My brother's comment was effective; clearly, as long as Elros remains with us, Elrond will also - he will not leave his brother. I make a note of it, for I have no intention of allowing either of them to slip away from us; even if I were not determined to salvage something from the horrors of this day by sparing their lives, there remains the simple fact that the sons of Eärendil may prove useful as hostages should a confrontation with Gil-galad's forces occur despite my precautions.

*******

We light the Havens on fire at dawn. As the town begins to burn, I see tears forming in Elrond's eyes, but he holds them back - he will not let us see him cry. Good, I think to myself, for tears will not serve you well, little one. This world is a harsh place, and you are going to need to be strong to survive in it. During our long journey north, I notice that Maglor seems drawn to these unfortunate children, and they to him; Elros in particular clings to him for comfort, but a fragile bond of trust has also begun to form between my gentle brother and the sullen and suspicious Elrond. My brother's wife remained in Aman rather than follow him into our exile here in Beleriand; for the first time I see how much he must have longed for a family of his own. Perhaps fostering these boys will lessen his loneliness. In his concern for the fate of these children, Maglor has forgotten our oath, and the Darkness, I realize, but I cannot. As Father's Heir, I am the one most bound by it, for I represent the House of Fëanor in a way that my younger brothers do not; the mere fact that it can no longer be achieved in no way releases me from it. I will continue to fight on; and perhaps that will be enough for the Valar to leave Maglor alone in peace. For a time, at least. For a time.

And so I make my decision, and when we reach the river Gelion, which marks the boundary of Ossiriand, I turn to Maglor and say, "Lead our men back home safely, brother. I am heading north." Maglor stares at me for a moment in shock. "You can't be serious, Russandol!" he finally says.

"Of course I am serious," I reply. "Long ago, I swore revenge against Morgoth, who still holds two Silmarils, and I keep my word. I no longer possess an army, and have no hope of overthrowing him, but I intend to deal him what harm I can. I leave the sons of Earendil and Elwing to your care, brother - teach them well. I will return home from time to time to check on you."

"But Russandol," he protests, "how will you manage alone? And I was counting on your help with Elrond and Elros; you could instruct them in so many things -"

"Instruct them in what?" I mock him bitterly. "Kinslaying? Perversion? Failure? All worthy lessons, I'm sure." Then seeing the pain on my brother's face, I stop and say more gently, "I will be fine, brother. Take your new foster-sons home now. Raise them well." I look at Elrond, sitting morosely on a horse lead by one of my brother's men, and at Elros, riding in front of my brother, held securely by his strong arm, and finally back at Maglor, who now has tears in his eyes. "Teach them how to sing," I say to him softly, and then I turn away and begin to ride north, to face whatever uncertain fate awaits me there.

Chapter End Notes

The second italicized line at the beginning of the story is a quotation from Macbeth, act 3, scene 4.

The Doom of the Noldor, which Maedhros quotes from, is found in chapter 9 of The Silmarillion.

Epessë - "aftername", a nickname

Maitimo - "Well Shaped One"; Maedhros's mother-name, given to him because "he was of beautiful bodily form." See "The Shibboleth of Fëanor", The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, volume 12), p. 353.

Ambarussa - "Top-russet"; Amras's mother-name, given to him because of his reddish hair. See "The Shibboleth of Fëanor", The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12), p. 353.

Pityafinwë and Telufinwë - "Little Finwë" and "Last Finwë"; the father-names of Amrod and Amras, respectively. See "The Shibboleth of Fëanor", The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12), p. 353.

Russandol – "Copper-top"; an affectionate nickname given to Maedhros by his family in acknowledgement of his reddish-brown hair. See "The Shibboleth of Fëanor", The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12), p. 353.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment