The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Evening Play

Maedhros and his brothers hold a great feast in the Himring - the wine, however, is not watered enough, and there are consequences.

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XX. The Evening Play

All echoes of murmur ceased in the Great Hall of the Himring when Lord Maedhros, Protector of Himlad, Warden of the East and Enemy of the Enemy rose to his feet.

Maedhros waited a few moments for the silence to deepen, to fill the hall from floor to ceiling. Then, he pushed his chair lightly under the table, fingers tightening around his diamond-wrought chalice: one of the scarce things that remained from his father's heritage.

The Warden of the East took a liking to that chalice and used it only on special occasions. Maedhros himself, however, found it artsy, heavy, and entirely useless, since it was designed in such a way that half a precious mouthful of wine always rested at its bottom, and it was impossible to pour it out within the boundaries of polite dining.

However, no more than the sight of the jewel-bedight goblet was enough to raise spirits in the hall. Something important is happening, it implied: a mute answer to hundreds of unasked questions.

And answers were long overdue.

Despite all Maedhros’s efforts, rumours spread like wildfire and – as far as he knew – the few morsels of valid information that managed to escape his council chamber had evolved into heroic, if not very believable tales. A pair of scouts claimed with sincere conviction that Lord Tyelkormo – but he is no longer a lord, some other scouts whispered -, battled a Valarauko out in the wastelands, and it was the whip of that beast that wounded the Lord Makalaurë’s arms and back. Others claimed that they saw Master Curufinwë forge swords that could catch fire like oil-dampened wood and burn with a vicious red flame. And there were voices, of course, that whispered news about a stolen Silmaril, and Thingol’s daughter who broke into the Enemy’s fortress, aided by none other than her lover, a mortal Man from the House of Barahir; and Huan the Hound, who had been following Lord Tyelkormo’s horse for centuries. Maedhros could almost hear those voices whispering, Lo! The princess of the Moriquendi dared a deed our Lords did not. A Jewel is missing from the Enemy’s crown, and it is in Doriath. What will our Warden do?

Your Warden will protect you, Maedhros thought, and for a heartbeat, his pale eyes were on fire. For there are still two Jewels wrought within that crown; and Moringotto sleeps no longer.

The lord who tries silencing rumours by force can shake hands with the lord who dies in the effort of putting a dike in front of the Sea, his counsellor had once told him. ‘Tis like one of those tiring games your Haru played with you in Valinórë, and you tried in vain to guess the point, only to realize that the point was non-existent.

They were simple paradoxes, Maedhros heard himself responding. Mazes with a narrow way in, and no way out.

Gazing around in the crowded Hall, he felt slightly uncomfortable without Tyelcano by his side: seated on his right, always clad in blue or black, silent and sincere, keen and resourceful, solving every situation with ruthless efficacity. The Counsellor had become the head of his household, solid and permanent as the Himring itself. Maedhros barely noticed him anymore, because he was always there, everywhere and anywhere he was needed; solemn, chivalrous and ready to serve.

Now, his absence all but annoyed him. He had all his brothers, his captains and his bannermen assembled in the same Hall, along with potential allies. If anyone, then Tyelcano could surely prevent disaster from striking... but could he?

He had no choice but to find out.

“Let us all greet our noble guests,” said The Warden of the East imperiously, taking a few lithe steps down the stairs that separated the high table from the smaller ones, chalice still in hand. The folds of his lustrous red-and-golden cloak hid tactfully the stump where his right hand should have been, and the words of the Sindarin tongue sprang fair and free from his lips. “My brothers all rode fast and far so they could feast with us tonight. I must say that my heart is glad to see my family gathered anew after all the long and perilous years that passed… May this feast bring joy and satiety to you all! You, who guard these walls and fill these halls at all times, be they good or evil – raise your cups now to Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod and Amras from the House of Fëanáro. Then fill them again and raise them for your own sake! People of my halls, rejoice!”

A wave of joyful cheering washed down the old, thick castle walls and a hundred cups gleamed golden in the light of torches. Maedhros raised his chalice well above his head before he proceeded to drink: a spectacle he remembered both Atar and Haru doing.

The wine tasted at once sweet and sour. Once he swallowed it, he felt some rich smack lurking at the end of his tongue, suggesting that the vintage was old.

All cups were emptied as the Sons of Fëanor delivered their speeches one by one in flowing Sindarin, greeting their eldest brother, and thanking him for his hospitality as courtesy ordained. Their speeches were smooth and uncharacteristically moderated, although Maglor repeatedly included Quenya words, forgetting their Sindarin counterparts; and Curufin was adamant at using the archaic pronunciation of the ‘s’ sound, which made his speech sound like lisping. And then, finally it was time for the youngest to rise to speak.

“I thank you all for your kind greetings,” Amrod said. He descended with slow steps at the opposite side of the table, not reaching the level where Maedhros stood to mask their difference of height. “I am most glad to be back behind the walls that withstood the Flames of the Enemy. You assembled here are all dear to my heart, be you a sergeant of mine or of any of my brothers’. Yet alas! There are many Elves and Men, many brave and noble souls who cannot be here with us tonight; either because they have been killed by the Enemy’s servants or because they stand watch over us, protecting us from the rogues and scattered Orc-bands that run all around Beleriand. These soldiers, these guardians are the only, thin wall standing between us and the Enemy’s utmost will: the destruction of our lands and fortresses, and chaos among our people. Let us raise our cups for our sworn brothers and sisters!”

“Rejoice!” The cry went up all around the tables, and Maedhros bowed his head with the rest of his brothers, thinking of Tyelcano above all.

“And last, but not the least,” Amrod went on, “let us greet the one without whom our people’s kingdoms would not be more than scattered ruins over empty wastelands. Without whom all hope would leave us. Let us all raise our cups one more time and drink to the health of our noble Lord, the Warden of the East, the Protector of our land, the Enemy of our Enemy, and my eldest and wisest brother. All hail the Lord Maedhros, son of Fëanáro, son of Finwë the First King; people of his halls, rejoice!”

“All hail the Lord of Himring!” The attendants of the feast boomed. “All hail the Protector of Himlad! All hail the Warden of the East! All hail the Enemy of the Enemy! All hail our Lord Maedhros! Let us drink to his health!”

When his brothers joined the soul-stirring ovation, Maedhros felt a thin smile escaping his heart and rushing onto the Warden’s face. He would have never admitted such a thing, but he loved to hear the praise of his people; mostly because it was scarce, and it came from the depths of their hearts.

“Thank you all for your greetings,” Maedhros forced that smile to stay on the Warden’s face, then emptied his goblet once more, mutely cursing the last sip of wine that lingered alow. “And now, before we let ourselves enjoy our food and drink and feast the night away, I demand your attention for a short while.”

The complete, utmost silence that settled in the entire Hall within the next heartbeat tickled his sense of humour; nevertheless, he nodded his thanks and handed his cup to a passing servant, shooing him off towards the high table.

“As Lord Amrod wisely mentioned, Himlad is being raided by Orc bands, who have gone as far as to lay hands upon my own brothers, Maglor, Celegorm and Curufin...”

Maedhros raised his hand to silence the uproar that followed his words.

“…who have successfully met their assault, and chased them off to the North. Your brothers-in-arms are currently pursuing them, yet there are more coming. Many more. More than you might think and more than we can handle alone; and this disaster did not only strike in Himlad. If you look around in this Hall, you may see than Men from the East are settled among us. As things are now, they are strangers to you; yet from this day to the end of our days in Beleriand, I shall expect you to treat them with friendship and respect, for they have offered us their swords and axes. They have been chased from their homes and lands by Morgoth – his name be cursed! – their fathers, their mothers, their wives, and their children were killed, their houses burned, their weapons melted, their goods stolen. And in that sense, we are all one in this hall! Let the leaders of these people now rise, and step in front of you, along with my brother Caranthir, Lord of Thargelion, who vouches for their trustworthiness.”

“That I do,” Caranthir’s booming voice emerged from the High Table as he stood, and walked downstairs to reach Maedhros’s level. “I have walked a thousand paths with these Men, and befriended them, if I am permitted to say; and I am glad to have them by my side, our side, in times such as these. For the roads of Beleriand are truly becoming dangerous; elsewise, we would have arrived three entire days ago! Yet we were running late; for we’ve had news that another band of that Orc-filth was crossing our way. I would have felt inglorious had I let them slip away!”

“All hail the Lord Caranthir and his sense of duty!” Maedhros exclaimed in a high-toned voice. It was something the Warden of the East would probably do.

“Rejoice!” the cry went up around the tables, echoing cheerfully.

“And all hail the wine of the Himring!” Caranthir countered when he tasted the dense drink and a hundred cheerful voices echoed his clamour. Then, to Maedhros’s surprise, he handed the emerald-wrought chalice straight to a Man who seceded from the crowd and stepped forward, followed by seven others.

“Here, friend,” Caranthir said in a lordly tone, “try the best vintage you’ve ever tasted. This shall warm you up, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Carnistir,” a croaky voice answered in fluent Sindarin – save for the name. The ‘r’ in that name was whirling like an ‘r’ should in the clearest archaic dialect one could imagine. Maedhros watched with keen eyes as the Adan folded back his riding-hood and took the chalice from Caranthir’s hands.

The face that emerged from under the black cloth was something like the one he had expected: hard and deeply lined, with golden-brown skin that enhanced the Adan’s broad features. Even now as he smiled, a dim wild gleam was present in his dark eyes, his lustrous black mop of hair falling recklessly onto his forehead. His beard was short, though, and well-trimmed.

This is one fearsome warrior, Maedhros decided.

“Brother,” Caranthir said in a voice that sounded at the same time broadish and high-toned. “Let me present you Lord Ulfang at first, along with his sons, Uldor, Ulfast and Ulwarth. They and their people have entered my service merely two years ago, and already, they have aided me more than others did in two centuries. I had hoped to give them lands south of Thargelion, but the Orcs chased us until your doorstep: a shame I shall no longer try to swallow. Let them aid you, brother, along with me and every soul assembled under my flag, and we shall help you cleanse your lands of the pent-up dirt!”

“That is long overdue,” said the Warden of the East, his voice a lot more majestic than Maedhros felt himself being. “I greet you, Men of the East! Be welcome in my halls and bear my friendship, as long as you bear my brother’s.”

“And I greet you, Lord of Himring and Warden of the East,” Ulfang answered, bowing his head. “I've heard much about you from your people; many tales of your deeds and bravery and many more of your stalwartness against the Enemy. My sword and life are pledged to the Lord Carnistir just as my sons’ but one day, if odds dictate that my Lord should fight by your side, we would be glad if we were not to stay behind.”

“Your wish may come true sooner than you think,” Maedhros said, slightly astonished by such words of courtesy coming from a Man this hard and battle-worn.

“That is good to hear m’lord,” the Easterling said. “My people already owe you a debt you cannot imagine, yet we hope to give you a gift in return. My kinsman has decided to offer you his service, and kindly asked me to vouch for him, for he has yet to learn the curious ways of Elven speech.”

Tongue, Maedhros thought absently, here, you should rather use ‘tongue’.

“…my kinsman and his sons are leaders of the tribe that fled across the Blue Mountains, hunted by the shadow of the Enemy. Food, shelter and work for their hands they seek; and they are willing to pay for such goods by swearing fealty to you and your House.”

“Every hand that bears a weapon is most welcome,” said the Warden of the East gracefully, although the Elf within found the notion of swearing slightly repulsive. “Let your kinsman step forth, for I would like to see his face and hear his name.”

Ulfang bowed before him, and said a few harsh, shrill words he did not understand. A Man’s shadowy figure stepped forth from behind Ulfang’s three sons, followed closely by three of his own. His skin was an even darker brown, his beard long and his features broad and mannish, much like those of the others. His brown eyes were wide open, filled with fear, admiration, and some other emotion Maedhros could not quite discern.

The Man withstood his gaze for less than a second, then he fell to his knees before his feet, and dropped his head. His sons stood like mute statues above him, their heads bowed, their arms tense. The Man then spoke a few sentences in his funny tongue; jarred and overwhelmed, his voice trembled in a way that was close to sobbing, yet it was still one of the proudest, most dignified orations Maedhros has ever heard.

He glanced at Ulfang, who came to his rescue as soon as the other Adan fell silent.

“My kinsman is grateful that he could kneel before you tonight, m’lord,” Ulfang said, voice upraised so his words would be heard in the entire Hall. “He has long wished to see the Enemy of the Enemy whose hair is red as flame and whose wrath is feared by many servants of the Darkness. He says that you are the only hope for his people, and he begs you to let him enter your service and dwell in your lands. He is offering his sword and life to you, Lord Warden.”

The Warden of the East nodded, and let the approving murmur of his people trail off.

“Orya!” he said, and leant down to touch the Adan’s chin lightly. He spoke in his own tongue, as he knew that it had a strange power over mortals; and he was right, for the Man raised his head, the joy of being accepted setting in his eyes. He stood.

“What is your name?” Maedhros asked him, switching back to Sindarin. He saw a flicker of recognition sparkling in the dark orbs, and he thought the Adan understood, but in the next moment, he shook his head.

“No,” he said grudgingly, when only silence answered him. “No name. You give me name.”

“You want me to name you…?” For a split second, the Warden of the East was forgotten, and Maedhros stared at the Man in wonder. Naming was a very intimate thing…

“This Man and his tribe have lost everything they had, brother,” came Caranthir’s voice from the left. “Their homes, their wealth, most of their families… when Ulfang and his sons laid their swords before my feet, they asked me to give them names as well, and I chose to give them back their old names, the ones they had forsaken when Moringotto destroyed their lives. I said I would help them avenge their loss, so they would feel worthy of their own names again; but the Adan who stands before you is proud and stubborn; and he shall not wear his old name again, for he considers it dead. He has chosen you as his lord and commander, and it shall be up to you to name him after the deeds he will do in your service.”

I cannot have nameless soldiers! Maedhros thought. I am not Moringotto…

The Warden of the East drew a deep breath, knowing that all eyes were on him in the Hall. And suddenly, he knew what to do.

“Bór,” He declared, his voice deep, his eyes grave, and he touched the side of the Adan’s face lightly. “Bór I shall name you, and that name is a promise. I want your sons and grandsons, and your people to remember you as the one who stood, and never wavered. You shall remain by my side in battles and trials to come. I want the Enemy – his name be cursed! – and his servants to cry Bór’s name in anguish and fear. Come now, son of Men, and draw your sword so the torches may light it!”

Half of Ulfang’s throaty translation was stifled by the ringing cheers of the audience, but Maedhros paid no heed to that. His eyes were on the Adan’s – Bór’s – face, radiating with heat and emotion. Something akin with wonder and gratitude lit up in the dark eyes, and he finally dared to properly look at Maedhros. He could only guess what the Man saw – a noble face with hard outlines, a forest of auburn hair, a graceful jawline and a pair of stormy grey eyes, still hideously beautiful and unblemished, burning with a distant white flame; thin, light cicatrices running down at the sides of his neck: whip-marks, cuts and other blemishes, all vanishing, all faint, vacant ghosts of pain… No other than Findekáno and his healers knew how they ran all through his body, up and down and across and around…

Yet, the Warden of the East had a beautiful face; white as marble. Cold as marble.

Dead as marble.

“All hail the Men of the East!” Cried a voice at the high table.

“Rejoice!” The clamour went up once again, and it was echoed ten times as Bór of the East swore fealty to the House of Fëanor and the Easterlings were seated among Himlad’s best captains.

Maedhros hoped that the cries were loud enough to stuff his people’s ears and heads, so they would forget about all the strange rumours buzzing around.

For one evening, at least.

~ § ~

When they arrived back at the dais, Caranthir took his place casually between Amrod and Amras. Maedhros settled at the head of the table, and had his chalice refilled.

“It is good to have you all gathered around my table,” he said. “Too many things have happened since we last met in council.”

“Too many indeed,” Curufin answered him, playing absentmindedly with his spoon, while food was served; then he suddenly raised his eyes, and Maedhros was surprised to see mirth in them. “Bór, Nelyo? Seriously? You could have at least given him a mazy name… for educational purposes…”

Maedhros let the adequate grin spread on his face; only then did he notice that there was something curious about Curufin’s countenance.

And he was not the only one to see it.

“Now-now, brother,” Caranthir snickered, “who punched you so properly and deservedly in the face?”

Celegorm and Curufin exchanged a mysterious glance.

“Consider it a battle scar,” said Celegorm very seriously.

“A most unfortunate incident,” Curufin nodded.

“…shared only with the worthy few.”

“I shall let my worth be otherwise defined,” Maedhros broke in, though he was terribly curious. “What do you make of these Easterlings?”

“As our Lord Warden has wisely said, every hand that bears a weapon is most welcome,” Celegorm recited. His eyes were sparkling, and Maedhros supposed he had been in his cups. “Or did it go the other way around? Every weapon that bears a hand…”

“They are very different from us, there is no doubt,” came Maglor’s solemn voice from across the table, “but they impressed me, in a way, or so I feel.”

“I am getting fond of them,” Caranthir declared. “They are witty, and fierce on the battlefield. Some of them learned quickly to present our courtesies, even if their true nature is much cruder... And Ulfang has a startling but deeply amusing sense of humour.”

“I can imagine,” Curufin snorted. “He seems to be the kind of fellow who plays puppetry with the skulls of his enemies.”

“That is a plaything of Orcs,” Maglor stated reproachingly. “He has his manners, or haven’t you heard? I wonder when were you granted with an occasion to meet foes of that kind.”

“Why, Nargothrond is filled with them,” Celegorm shrugged. “Only, they are playing puppetry with words, which gets slightly boring after a time.”

“Oh,” Maglor countered in a shrill tone, “and is that a comic play? With one puppet calling ‘King-slayer!’ and the other calling ‘Traitor!’?”

I should have had that wine watered, Maedhros realised.

In happier times, this would have been the moment when Tyelcano came to the rescue – the counsellor had a remarkable talent of switching from cumbrous subjects to pleasant ones. But he was far away now, probably struggling through the thick layer of fog in the wastelands; and before Maedhros could think twice, Curufin’s entire countenance froze, and disaster stroke.

“Speaking of Nargothrond,” Caranthir raised his thin brows, “I’ve heard of you esclandres, sweet brothers. Congratulations in hindsight! Forgive me if my applause was not loud enough to hear a thousand miles apart.”

Oh no. Oh, Valar, no. Not now.

“Do not poke your nose into things you cannot hope to understand,” Celegorm growled. “We have been betrayed.”

“O, damnation!” Caranthir sighed theatrically. “Betrayed! My eyes are watering! You must have been very deeply hurt to be able to jest about all the turmoil you caused! You must horribly regret your malevolence... your ignorance... your stupidity! And I thought that you have been wronged! And I thought that you have been put to danger! And I worried for you...! I have feared for your life you filthy little…! Pray tell me what happened! Pray tell me why on Arda you thought that high treason was a good idea...!”

Maedhros opened his mouth to harshly rebuke him but no sound escaped his lips. Valar knew, he did not have any arguments to clash against that reasoning... And as unwise as it seemed, part of him desperately wanted to hear Celegorm’s response.

“Shut your mouth, Carnistir!” Curufin hissed. “I will not have you questioning our decisions. I've already had enough of that. I’m coming to regret that I came to this accursed dinner at all.”

“Aye, you should,” Maglor suddenly called at him, his voice unusually cool. “For you have no place among us…”

“K-a-n-o!” Maedhros groaned in distress. Manwë above, this was going the worst way possible! He knew Maglor heard him and was aware of him, he saw it – still, his brother adamantly finished his sentence.

“…and not even among your children!”

“Enough!” Maedhros half snapped, half gasped. “By the Valar, Kano, do you hear yourself speaking…?!”

But it was too late.

Curufin looked disturbingly like their long-dead father when he rose from the table, chalice still in hand, lustrous black hair flowing restlessly, exuberantly down his shoulders; and his voice was also much like Fëanáro’s when he spoke.

“There is not much to be said,” he glanced darkly at his brothers, grey eyes fixed finally at Maglor’s face. “You speak of my children in vain. I have no son and no daughter.”

His chalice banged on the table and half its contents were spilled; the oldest wine of the Himring’s cellars was drenching the table-cloth with arborescent lines of blood-red while Curufin took five quick steps down the stairs and disappeared behind the rear door. Celegorm stood as well, turned his back on the high table, and went after him, though his moves seemed somewhat less guarded. There was no shouting, no swearing, nor any kind of loud confrontation but the air seemed to vibrate with tension; and this alone was enough for dead silence to spread in the hall.

Maedhros chose to ignore it all and had his cup filled for the eighteenth time, if he counted it correctly. After a few more seconds of sullen silence, Amras took a hesitant mouthful of food and Caranthir pushed his chair closer to the table. Slowly, they went on feasting as if nothing had happened; and all the rest of the hall willingly joined the theatre.

A few tormenting minutes passed.

“One day,” Amrod suddenly spoke up, his voice strangely distant, “we found an Orc-nest under the mountains with Carnistir and the Easterlings. We wandered far south from the lands of the Dwarves – I have never been there before! Telvo and I had chased those Orcs for three days straight… They never seemed to tire, and their dwellings were well hidden. The passages were becoming so narrow under the earth that two soldiers could not march forth shoulder to shoulder, yet I went on with Telvo, Moryo and Ulfang... And there we went, guarding each other's steps; I went forth, and Carnistir followed with Telvo and the Adan at his heels. The paths were silent…”

“Now,” Maedhros said, ready to unleash his frustration upon the first possible target, “what exactly do you think you were doing in a narrow passage well under the earth, with no more than a mortal Man to guard you? You are not reckless Elflings anymore! You could have been attacked, or worse, captured!”

“That is not the moral of the story!” Amrod countered with a sigh. “What we found... what we found in those caverns were thralls. Not Elves and not Orcs; something in between. Creatures that could not be healed, not in this Age of the world. In happier times I might have known some of them by the name.... Yet we had to kill them. To slaughter them one by one, to chase them as hounds would chase a deer for their master to hunt it down.”

“Is this an attempt to brighten our moods?” Maglor snapped.

“No. This is an attempt to make you listen!” Amrod crossed his arms. “We were furious. And we did not understand what was happening. Are thralls not meant to stay in the Dark Lands until their... their transformation is complete? Or if this is what Moringotto wants, why would he not keep them in Angamando? We could not even dream why...”

“Why Moringotto let them stay in such conditions?” Maedhros laughed darkly. “Or why did he hand them out to his Orcs? He did it for you to find them, evidently. For your mere distress. For you to start wandering what kind of hideous sorcery must lurk in Angamando that could be capable of this; as well as for me to remember dark days long gone. To plant fear in our hearts, to let it grow.”

“That is still not the moral of the story,” said Amrod, and he raised a finger. “We could not even dream why Moringotto let them stay in such a condition, aye. But now I think I understand. He did it for the same reason he seeks to plant enmity between us. And you, brothers, are all helping his cause! You, Kano, by insulting Curvo; you, Carnistir, by irritating him; you, Nelyo, by silently letting all of it happen; and you, Telvo, by simply eating, all so naturally, and pretending we don’t even exist!”

“Are you seriously reproaching Telvo that he was eating?!” Caranthir rolled his eyes. “Without even mentioning what Tyelko did…?!”

“I should not have mentioned Curvo’s children,” said Maglor, his face white as a wall. “I know that. But I just… I couldn’t just sit there, and suffer these two jesting about what they did, after everything that happened… knowing what they did to us…”

“Enough.”

There was something in Maedhros’s voice that made the air all but freeze around them.

“I am the one who made a mistake tonight,” he said, “by thinking you could manage to spend one evening without clawing at each other’s throats. From this moment to the end of our feast, I demand silence. I don’t want to hear your chattering and muttering and hassling and flite.”

One by one, his brothers bowed their heads before their elder.

“Kano, Moryo,” said Maedhros menacingly, “You shall look for Curvo and apologise. What happened after his and Tyelko’s arrival stays between us. You have no right to speak to him in such a way… no matter what. Patience and generosity are the worst kind of punishment you can give him.”

 “As you wish,” Caranthir nodded. Maglor remained silent.

Maedhros looked around. The faces he saw mirrored his own displeasure, hurt and uneasiness. Amrod and Amras were shooting quick glances towards Caranthir who was twiddling his thumbs, his brows furrowed. Maglor, on the other hand, sat still, his thin lips pressed together as if he’d decided not to speak anymore in this Age of the world. Celegorm and Curufin were nowhere to be seen.

Laughter escaped Maedhros’s lips; harsh, raspy, bitter laughter. The same laughter that shook his entire body when he saw the stump of his right hand for the first time in the light of day.

“Nelyo?”

Maglor was staring at him. He recognised his foul mood, Maedhros knew.

“Raise your cups,” he said mockingly, “and hail the Lord of the Ñoldor, the Head of the House of Fëanáro, the Warden of the East and the Enemy of the Enemy! All hail the Lord Maedhros, the Hero of Many Battles, who cannot even keep his brothers at hand!”

“That’s not…,” Maglor started, but Caranthir slammed his goblet against the table, and cried in his booming voice,

“Rejoice!”

And the unsuspecting Hall echoed.

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

‘Valarauko’ is Quenya for ‘Balrog’.

Bór’s name means ‘faithful’, and it was canonically given to him by the Elves – so I thought it would be appropriate if Maedhros himself named him. It was a very conscious decision to make him appear much more educated and dependable than Bór and his sons.

‘Atar’ stands for ‘Father’ and ‘Haru’ for ‘Grandfather’ in Quenya.

‘Orya’ [m.: ‘Rise!’] is an archaic form of Quenya imperative, signalling a very direct command.

A short note on Amrod & Amras:

There are two versions of the canon we know: The (published) Silmarillion one, where Amrod is the elder and Amras the younger, and they both survive until the Third Kinslaying; and the Shibboleth one, in which the twins are reversed – Amras being the elder and Amrod the younger –, and Amrod perishes when the ships are burned in Losgar.

My interpretation is a mashup of the two, since Amrod is the younger, but they both survive the burning of ships.