The Darkest Season by Elleth

Dark, high clouds rolled towards Ereb from the North at evening, and the pair of watchmen on the western walls drew up the hoods of their cloaks. It was the beginning of Narbeleth, and an early first snow day of the year. The hand of Morgoth extended further south each year, and whoever could would find shelter soon. Already they were casting longing glances at the lit window of the guard house in the courtyard tower, where candles and fireplace set an unsteady golden glow about the room, dice were clattering, and someone had begun a song that echoed faintly up to the fortifications. The lucky few who had drawn the lots to toll the hour bells, worm their way through paperwork, and even the usually unpleasant task of caring for the homing pigeons (not to mention the off-duty soldiers who nonetheless appeared, for company and mulled wine), were the envy of their fellows this night.

"Lucky, aren't they?" asked Asgarvain and snorted. Her breath condensed as white mist before her face. "But Manwë be merciful, we'll be back inside by the time the clouds start to unload. I could do without being snowed on tonight, and so could my shoulder. Thundersnow, I'd wager. It'll twinge less if I get to warm up." Asgarvain rolled her shoulders. She had taken an arrow to the shoulderblade in the Nirnaeth, and the old injury had been plagueing her each winter for more than thirty years now, especially with a snowstorm impending.

"Go ask Celeblith if he will take your shift. You know he never manages to tell anybody no, and especially not you," Handrin laughed. Although he was breathing on his fingers to keep them warm, his good cheer rarely depended on the weather, unless it was raining.

"Celeb won't say no, but he's off duty tonight, and that means he will have met his brandy bottle for some intimacy and be well on the way to not walking straight. What did you expect? He's one of Lord Maglor's people, sensitive artist souls the lot of them. The singing earlier when we went outside, 'Alas my love, farewell my leaf,' that was him. Hardly anyone you want for company tonight; he'll go tumbling over the bannister before you've made a round."

"Convinced," Handrin, chuckling again, took a step back with both arms raised in surrender against her sour look, and Asgarvain ducked the shaft of his spear. "Careful, you, or I will retaliate. You know I will."

"What, with your shoulder, old lady? Well, at least sparring is likely to keep us warm," Handrin swivelled his spear around dramatically, but Asgarvain had quickly stepped out of his reach and gave him another, more warning look when her ears picked up a sound in the dark.

"Shh, quiet! Didn't you hear the horses?" She peered over the parapet into the gathering murk outside the walls. Hooves were clattering over stone in a gallop below them, but there was nothing to see yet. The road to the gate snaked up the west slope of the hill in a serpentine, and whoever was approaching would have to pass below them. Asgarvain's fingers crept toward her horn and closed around it. It was unlikely that the Enemy would attack them on horse, his cavalry consisted almost entirely of the great wolves of Angband, but an unexpected return in the dark was rarely a good portent. They were not looking for the return of any traders or scouts until three days hence.

The group of five came in view as they raced up to the gate. Red livery shot with gold and black, Lord Caranthir's banner that flashed as they passed beneath the lantern lights on the wall. Asgarvain gave the signal – three horn calls, high and clear – open the gate, a scouting party has returned – and, slipping down the last of the icy stairs as a flash of light burst across the sky, hurried into the courtyard. The expression on Commander Hwestonnen's face heralded either something great or terrible, but either way it was not one she had seen in a long time – not since he had called the retreat in the chaos that followed the Easterling attack on the Fëanorians, as one of the few who kept their heads, literally and figuratively. They had grown close fleeing together, and for this almost certainly momentous occasion, she was sure, a brief departure from her post would be tolerated.

Just as the courtyard gate was pushed closed again by the men on gate duty, thunder rolled, and it began to snow in thick, grey flakes.

"What is it?" she asked after a quick hailing him, and winced when her shoulder spasmed. "What news from the borders?" She held up her lantern to better see his face and dimly noted that Handrin hurried to her side. Hwestonnen dismounted and leaned close.

"A Silmaril," he said. "A Silmaril burns again in the woods of Doriath."

Asgarvain barely heard the next clap of thunder over the blood rushing in her ears.

Chapter End Notes

Hwestonnen's piece of dialogue is almost directly taken from the Silmarillion.

"We can't tell them. We cannot do it," Handrin said. He was pacing the circular room while the pigeons cooed above them. Hwestonnen, more stoic now that he had barked orders into the guard house that Asgarvain and Handrin were to accompany him, nevermind the watch, was already sporting a white stain down the front of his robes. The pigeons cared little that the three people gathered in the room with them were likely discussing the rise or fall of the House of Fëanor, and went about their business as usual. For once not even Handrin was laughing, instead he was thumping the butt of his spear on the ground nervously as he walked. The noise, the cold, and the acrid smell of the droppings were almost more than Asgarvain's nerves could bear. She willed herself to stay leaning against the wall out of the way of the worst drafts of wind through the flight entrances, and not hit Handrin around the head with her gauntlet.

"What do we do? They will sooner or later learn it, no matter our intent to keep it secret, or we wouldn't be hidden away in a dovecote," she snapped. "And I would rather they learned it from someone with half a mind, rather than some rambling fool who hopes to win the favour of the Cs."

"They have names," Hwenstonnen cut in with an expression to curdle milk, "– My lord, at any rate, will hardly rush to Doriath and knock on their doors demanding the Silmaril, he is less impulsive than that. It is a good thing lords Celegorm and Curufin are patrolling to the south; I would not vouch for them after their vow to destroy Doriath while Thingol ruled," he finished, never moving from the center of the room where he stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

"We still haven't answered the question. What do we do? It's a lost cause either way, once they learn about the Silmaril they will have to go, this time, with no Union of Maedhros to plan and keep them on their best behaviour – they are oathsworn to go and take it, though all of Doriath stand in their way. Have you forgotten Lond-in-Eilph? And that was for ships, wasn't it, nothing their existence depended upon."

"You're overreacting, Handrin, you weren't even there. It's not their existence, it's their peace of mind that depends on the Oath, what little they have left of that. Which is bad enough, admittedly." Asgarvain's eyebrows rose as he began chewing on his lips after the reprimand. It was no secret that he harboured some scholarly fascination with the story, but in a fortress with many of the original forces, he was decidedly unlucky finding someone willing to speak about the kinslaying. She, at any rate, was not going to relive that night unless it was for a very good reason. "Their continued existence – and ours - depends on them not going to Doriath," she stated. "Because once they learn, they will go, and I don't believe for a second that the Doriathrim will escort them to the throne room of Menegroth and hand them the Silmaril with a bow wrapped around it. So they will fight for it. At least my lord Maedhros will, he is that kind of fool."

"All of them. All of them will, for different reasons of their own and one they share; family loyalty," Hwestonnen stated. "I've seen it often enough, even when they were small. Once one brother began something, all of them either followed, or at least stood up for the one in question whether or not they truly agreed. This once it will be something they can all agree on, for all their various motives. Otherwise, I daresay, the two of us would still be in Aman."

"Even better, so we cannot count on support from any of them to sway their brothers' opinion. And if they learn that we withheld our knowledge of it... this is going to be a disaster. " Handrin looked from Asgarvain to Hwestonnen with a frown, perhaps, even with their doom impending, unhappily reminded of the fact that he was not only the lowest in rank of the three and serving the youngest sons of Fëanor, he was also the youngest of the three, not born until the Long Peace began.

"Quiet now, Handrin. We will need the most reasonable of us to speak with the most reasonable of them. Which means that I will speak to Maedhros, fool though he can be," Asgarvain said.

Hwestonnen gave her an appraising look. "They say he values your service," he ventured. "Why don't you – although I will be coming with you. I want to relate the discovery to him personally. The less hearsay, the better."

"Then I'll be coming as well," Handrin stated and knocked his spear on the ground. "Now that I know, I will not have a good night's sleep not knowing what will happen."

The three of them looked at each other, and with the agreement in their air between them, all of them stepped closer until their hands met and clasped.

"To anyone else, silence," Hwestonnen said. "I have told my men nothing, and do not want them to be part of this - our meeting here would have been in vain if the whole guard prattled their fool mouths bloody over the accursed stone."

Asgarvain nodded. "And when? In the morning? My lord rises early and his mood is best after breakfast. I suggest we find him in his chambers before he opens court."

Hwestonnen nodded gravely. The discussion must have seemed concluded to him, because he began to head for the latch and ladder in the corner to descend back down to the guard house, and Handrin, with a look back at Asgarvain, trailed after him.

Asgarvain leaned her head back against the cool wood of the walls and breathed shallowly against the smell – and the rising nausea about the prospect of having only a few hours to find the right words. The pigeons cooed above her, but for once she did not feel comforted by the noise. Outside, the weather had quieted down again, the whistling of the wind had subsided, and the last peal of thunder had rolled a distance away to the south. The storm had passed quickly, but her shoulder had not stopped twinging. There was a worse one yet to come, and her nightwatch on the walls was far from over.

Chapter End Notes

Lond-in-Eilph should be obvious from context. It's a hypothetical Sindarin form of Quenya Alqualondë modelled after extant place names like Lond Daer and Nîn-in-Eilph. It does seem rather more easy to pronounce than that more obvious parallel formation, Eilphlond, and avoids the possbily awkward consonant cluster in the middle on top of that.

Asgarvain and Handrin's boots had plowed a track around the walls doing their rounds in tense silence, but the courtyard lay white and undisturbed, few people would venture outside of their own volition now. The storm had been short and brutal, and left a calf-high blanket of hail and wet snow that would, judging from the crashes outside the walls, cost them a fair number of trees collapsing under the weight of their load.

"Have you - " Handrin began. He was walking a step behind Asgarvain and she could feel his breath warm and moist on the back of her neck. It was not a pleasant sensation. Her irritation surged.

"No, I have not! I am trying to think of something to say! What would you want me to say? 'Good morning Lord Maedhros, I hope you enjoyed your breakfast because I come bearing a message that will spoil your appetite for the remaining year and quite likely ruin the winter solstice celebrations?' If you have a better idea, I would love to hear it because I am at the end of my wisdom!" She took a deep breath. "And while you are at it, get off my skin and stop breathing down my neck, and I mean that literally!" She whirled around, ready to continue her tirade.

But Handrin had the grace to look abashed, and took a step backward. Almost immediately, Asgarvain felt sorry for snapping at him, and lowered her voice. "I am sorry, Rin. You are lucky, you never had to decide between your life and that of another elf you forced to take up arms against you. It is not a choice I would wish on you or anyone, but that is precisely what will come of it."

"I don't think I could," Handrin said. He kicked a clump of snow over the wall. It landed with a dull thud on the other side below.

"I did not think I could, until I stood in Alqualondë without my sword. The first Teler I killed went overboard and took it down with him. But at that point there were enough dead from either side that there was no shortage of weapons available. See." The sword Asgarvain pulled from her sheath was a beautiful thing with a gentle curve to the blade. Blue leather wrapped the hilt, and the pommel and crossguard were etched with the stylised swirls of cloud. Artful tengwar curled along the blade.

"Tamintur made me, Ohtapairë, for Fánandil his son," Handrin read quietly. "Did you know him?"

Asgarvain shook her head. "Not personally, only his name. Fánandil was one of the lords that followed the king to Formenos, I stayed in Tirion and continued my business. He just happened to be the first corpse I stumbled over, and I had no time to be discerning. I killed three others, two men and a girl of fifty who meant to revenge the boy she had just married at the feast before the Darkening. The least I can do is to cleanse the sword by slicing open as many orcs as I can – but in some cases that would mean for me to turn the blade against ourselves."

Handrin's hand came to lie heavily on her shoulder; his fingers were digging into her flesh. "So let us prevent this, for you at least," she said. "If the story alone is turning you so sheet-white, I want neither hide nor hair of you on the battlefield, child." Asgarvain continued. "Because there will be battle, and you know it."

"If there is – if – then I am refusing to let you go alone. I never heard you sound so broken in all the time we've known each other."

Having her weakness adressed so openly sent a jolt through Asgarvain. "Protective of me, are you? But being well-meaning will get you no further than the girl at Alqualondë. Show me what you are made of. What are the chief Doriathrim weapons?"

"Thingol used the sword, if the stories are to be believed. Beleg used, bow, sword and spear, Mablung axe and spear. It makes no matter. They used all of them."

"Arrows. Think, Handrin – they live in a forest, which offers a great deal of cover and vantage points to shoot us down from every tree. If we ever make it to Menegroth, I would wager we will meet with their axes and swords afterwards."

Asgarvain bowed down to scoop up a handful of snow that she pressed into a hard ball. Water ran into her gauntlets, and she grimaced, but she scooped up more until a sizeable pile of snowballs lay beside her. Handrin gave her curious looks and sucked on his lower lip.

"Arrows," Asgarvain said, and motioned for him to stand back. "You did not think I would shoot arrows at you, would you? These will do. Move."

Handrin, still looking doubtful, followed her directions and moved away from her. "Back. Back. Further. Stop, that is the right range." She took up a snowball and flexed her arm, took aim, and hoped her muscles would cooperate. "Come at me!"

Handrin began to jog toward her. His breath misted and billowed around his face. She saw the opportunity and threw. A dull clang resounded; she had hit his chestplate. Handrin swerved to the right, and she followed with her aim. Clang. He ducked, and the next snowball went over his head, the one after burst over his ear as he struggled back to his feet.

"Enough! Enough, the battle's over for you. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you never encountered ranged weapons before. Down, dead three times over!"

Handrin arrived in front of her, panting and pressing a hand to his head. There was blood seeping between his fingers, and his eyes were wide. Asgarvain swallowed hard. This she had neither expected nor intended, and it took a moment to find the words to say.

"Let me see that." All the same, her voice was an octave higher than she'd usually allow it. She prised his hand away and brushed the sticky hair aside, breathing easier when she found it was nothing serious.

"Only a laceration, I think. Still, head to the healers, head wounds will bleed you stupid," she said. "I'll get someone to cover for you."

Handrin, still quiet, nodded. "I will find you in the morning," he said, and began walking toward the keep, leaving a trail of churned-up snow in his wake. Asgarvain remained behind and stared at her fingers, slick with Handrin's blood. She knelt to wipe them off on the snow, then shoved more snow over the pink stains, and hoped it would be the first and last she had to see of that for a long time.

Eventually, Asgarvain made her way back to the guard house. She was not keen on anyone learning the particulars of the incident with Handrin, or on questions as to what she and the two men had done in the dovecote earlier that night – for all its truthlessness, ribald banter had become something of a fashion among the guardsmen since they had served with mortals, where, if they could be believed, it held a good deal more truth. Among so many unmarried people (marriage, in the Fëanorian army, had always been the exception rather than the rule, with the possibility of war never far removed), she supposed that it held a certain wishful appeal to some.

Warm, stale air from within hit her in the face when she pushed the door open. There were some muffled complaints about the cold that wafted in with her, but the guards had quieted considerably now that the late watches had begun. Her eyes searched the room and found the figure she had been seeking dozing in a chair by the fire. Involuntarily, she smiled at the way Celeblith's mouth hung a little askew, and the way his eyes twitched underneath the half-closed lids. Not that she would let him see anything but disapproval about his habit once he had sobered.

"Wake up," she said into his ear, blowing at the strand of silvery hair that was tucked behind it, and chuckled when his brow wrinkled. "Celeb, wake up. I need you."

Muttering, he pushed himself upright in the chair, with the unmistakeable slurring that betrayed how drunk he still was. Asgarvain couldn't help rolling her eyes, but helped him to his feet, reaching for his overcoat to bundle him up with one hand, and snatched a wool blanket from his chair with the other.

"We're going outside, Handrin's to the healers," she informed Rhîwen, who was presiding over the roster and ledgers that night.

"Odd night. Him?" Rhîwen asked with a glint in her eye, and tilted her head a little too far, "No fooling around on guard duty."

Asgarvain didn't bother to respond. Like all of Curufin's people, whether those who accompanied him on his travels, or those who remained to stock the forces of the keep, Rhîwen was a little strange, in particular her failing to make humorous remarks seem humorous – but at least she was not asking questions. Taking Celeblith outside would not only help him sober up, it would also serve, while he continued dozing in some corner, to give Asgarvain time alone while upholding the protocol of two guards on each side of the walls at all times, and avoiding a reprimand from her superiors. She made for the door steadying Celeblith, who was breathing brandy smell into her face and leaning heavily on her.

"There you go, sit here. Don't come after me, it's cold." She eased him down inside the covered part of the walkway above the gates where he was out of the worst of the wind, pulled his cloak snug around him and for good measure spread the blanket over him. "I do feel like I am still coddling you, did you know that?" she said. Celeblith only gave an indistinct mumble as answer.

"Yes, of course. Whatever it is you are trying to say. Stay here."

It was good to be alone again, Asgarvain thought as she stepped outside. With the sky clearing after the storm, the wind had picked up again and drove at her like needles, while the stars, pinpricks on the firmament, blinked above her. She sighed. Of course, when standing in Aman after the Darkening, the sky had looked different once the murk of Morgoth had been driven away, but the stars were Elbereth's work no matter where on Arda she herself stood. Tonight they promised one thing: We are watching. It was not a comforting thought, and momentarily she was glad that they would not relay the news to Maedhros until daylight.

"Morbid and melancholy," Asgarvain said. "I should stop that." She began making her rounds, still pondering what to say to Maedhros in the morning, and none the wiser when the hourbell tolled four. It came down to the same; there was no gentle way to tell the truth, and what words precisely she used seemed secondary. She shivered, but from cold rather than fear. Her feet might as well be clumps of ice, but she was not going to complain. Others had had it worse, but she could not deny that the changing of the guard and a few hours of sleep were an appealing prospect. After she had greeted the new sentries and deposited Celeblith in his chair by the fire again, she made her way to the long building snug against the side of the eastern wall; the barracks. No one below a captain's rank had their quarters within the main house, but personally she no longer minded the lack of amenities – she had long since gotten used to the presence of others and the noises they made at night. Most of the time the deep breathing and rustle of blankets tended to calm her, and she hoped the same would be true tonight. Asgarvain beelined for her bed without re-lighting her lantern; she knew the room well enough to avoid banging her shins anywhere.

"Hello," said a voice in the dark. Asgarvain jumped.

"Handrin. You are supposed to be asleep!" She couldn't help the sharp tone that crept into her voice, but it was one of concern rather than anger. "Why did you choose to stay up?"

"Choose?" He chuckled, but with none of the usual mirth. "After Healer Idhlinn went on and on about idiot guards playing with snowballs while she sutured the cut? Not likely. And – I am not very much looking forward to the morning, if you get my meaning."

"Of course."

"Have you found anything to say?"

"No." Asgarvain kicked off her boots and began to undo the straps and buckles that held her chestplate in place. "It is hard to know what to say without knowing what reaction we will find – with something so monumental, it is hard to know anything. I will improvise."

Handrin chuckled again. "This could be funny if it weren't so serious."

"You are trying to cheer me up, aren't you?" Asgarvain shed her chainmail and placed it on its stand, deciding to postpone any cleaning work until after sleep.

"Hm-mh."

"That is a lost --" Asgarvain yawned. "-- cause. Now get off my bed, I want to sleep." She stripped off the protective soft leather shirt and rolled her shoulders, shrugged on her long linen nightshift and let it pool around ankles. About to drop herself on the bed, she found Handrin still there, perched on the pillow hugging his drawn-up legs, and head resting on his knees.

"What is the matter?"

"I thought about it – you're right, if it comes to the worst, I have no place there. I am thinking of leaving service. Pre-emptively, so no one will call me a coward because I don't want to be part of a second ki– ow!" Asgarvain had elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Don't say it. You do not want to give away anything. But – yes. Perhaps that would be the best way. The possibility had not crossed my mind, but it is less unpleasant than the alternative, and more honourable than desertion."

Handrin stayed sullenly silent, rubbing his side, and shifted over to make room for Asgarvain who promptly slipped beneath the quilt and drew it close about her.

"Where else would you go?" he asked eventually.

"After retiring? I was a jeweller in Aman, perhaps I could work with the armourers here. I have done that in the past already. And you? I thought your parents allowed you to join the forces before you had even decided for an apprenticeship?"

He nodded. "But I can read and write, my lords sent me to carry messages before. And I speak some Laegren and Taliska, perhaps they might make me an envoy of sorts?"

"The idea is good, it would suit you – but an envoy to whom? Beor and Hador's houses are spent far enough to be of no more use to us, most Easterlings are traitors, Hithlum was wiped out, King Fingon is dead, and goodness knows where his brother is hiding. Up a tree if Aman was any indication; Turgon loved to climb."

"Nargothrond is fallen as well. That leaves the Laegrim and the coast?" Handrin suggested carefully. "Lords Amrod and Amras are in Southern Ossiriand currently, but if we can ally with Círdan on Balar, we might fare a little better than we do."

"Perhaps. More than that I would like you to be spared what is coming, but the decision is yours. Now at least lie down if you are not going to sleep." Asgarvain closed her eyes and felt Handrin worm under the covers beside her. The bed was narrow, but it would do, and it was warmer than sleeping alone. If this invited more commentary, she was too tired to care much about it. Sleep descended on Asgarvain like a blanket.

It barely felt like a moment's rest until Hwestonnen's voice cut into her uneasy dream of snow, trees and arrows.

"Now look at that, both of you at once. How sweet. Get up, it is nearly past breakfast, and we have Lord Maedhros to meet."

Asgarvain groaned and cracked her eyes open only to find the gold-embroidered cuffs of Hwestonnen's shirt in front of her face and his hands ready to pull away the blanket she had tucked up to her chin, while Handrin's head was pillowed on the crook of her elbow. He had stolen half the bed at some point during the night, and now he lay sprawled and half on top of her in a way that made movement near-impossible. How anyone could sleep as soundly as he did in that position was utterly beyond her comprehension.

"That was a lovely awakening. Good morning, Commander, Asgarvain muttered. "Since you had the grace to wake me, you could do the same for him, and then be useful in fetching us tea while we get ready," she said, and tried to work her way out beneath Handrin, who slept on, oblivious. Her right shoulder had locked again, so that any effort to push him off was forestalled.

"SOLDIER HANDRIN! ATTENTION!" Hwestonnen had never been averse to raising his voice when necessary drilling the troops, or on the battlefield, but being yelled at and having the warm blanket torn away must have been unexpected for Handrin, when even the morning bell had been unable to wake him. He jumped up, tangled his legs, and disappeared over the edge of the bed with a profound thunk.

Hwestonnen laughed; it was not a particularly pleasant sound. Asgarvain had never liked his streak of malicious glee when it surfaced. "There. Prepare yourselves," he said. "I want clean attire, no weapons. We are not going to leave the wrong impression with Maedhros. Ten minutes. Missing breakfast is your own fault for sleeping in," he said with a look at Handrin, who had struggled to his feet and was about to open his mouth to object, but only managed a meek, "Yes, Commander," and gave Asgarvain a pleading look. She poked him in the ribs, and with a pronounced pout at her, he bowed, stretched, and yawned again, before stealing out of the room to dress for the meeting.

Hwestonnen, too, walked off. Asgarvain assumed that it was to give to give her some privacy, all the more surprised she was when the door to the hall was pushed open and Hwestonnen reappeared just after she had thrown on clothes and was pulling her fine boots from the chest at the foot of her bed. He was carrying three mugs and a pot of tea, and for a moment Asgarvain wondered if her eyes were showing her surprise.

"Are you ready?" Hwestonnen asked, eyeing the dress she wore. The ceremonial garment of red and cream velvet had been liberated from Himring on a wagonload of clothes and supplies once the Fëanorians had gathered their strength again after the Nirnaeth; these days anyone on Ereb would be unable to afford the luxury of clothes like this, as money was scarce and affairs often miserable.

Hwestonnen put the tray down on her bed and poured for himself. Arms crossed, he waited while Asgarvain chewed on a piece of waybread from her rations pack and washed it down with quick sips of tea, careful not to dribble on the rich fabric.

"Did you tell Inuthind?" she asked when the silence threatened to overwhelm. The barracks were nearly empty, and the sounds from outside, snow shovels and drill instructions, were muffled by the walls. Asgarvain dared a larger sip of tea, strong and black, burned her mouth, and hissed.

Hwestonnen raised an eyebrow. "You did not think I would bring you cool tea?" he asked. "And yes, I told her. She is a healer; if I did not know better then I would say that she has the capacity to smell misfortune. Contrary to you, I did not sleep, and finding me both returned ahead of time and awake when she came from her shift told her all she needed to know. And what business did you have with Handrin and snowballs?" He lifted the teapot to begin studying the leaves that had settled at the bottom.

"It was nothing. He needed a demonstration of ranged weapons, and I took what was available."

"Yes, and nearly split my skull open." Handrin said lightly, emerging from the corridor. Asgarvain had to admit that he looked dashing in his livery; green and gold with accents of dark red - her mind was eagerly seizing any distraction to not have to think about the impending meeting; she did not usually entertain such thoughts about him, and snorted at herself. Hwestonnen made no reply, or gave any indication he even had heard Handrin's remark. It seemed he was not averse to avoidance either.

Asgarvain rolled her eyes, swallowed the last mouthful of hard biscuit, and brushed the crumbs off her dress.

"We ought to go," she said, rising. Her voice grew sharper when neither of the two moved. Handrin was stirring his tea with his finger, he had not had any of it yet. "If you men are too craven, then I must go alone. I do not want this any more than you."

Hitching the dress around her calves so it would not drag through the mire outside, she briskly walked out of the barracks, crunched across the trampled snow in the courtyard that had not yet been cleared away, and headed up the stairs to the main house. One of the doorwardens whistled and blocked her way with his spear. She halted to glare.

"Fair lady, what fiend had you sleep with the soldiers?" he asked with a grin. "What can I do to move you to sleep with me?"

There was a reason she much preferred her armour, or at least her ordinary tunic and pants. It spared her remarks like this. "Get your spear out of the way unless you want my hand down your pants crushing your wrinkly little nuts, Mallach. I don't have patience for your quips today." Behind her, she could hear Handrin choking on laughter. So they had followed.

"Tell me if Maedhros is in, and I might leave you alone depending how well the meeting goes."

Mallach only made a sour face, and said nothing. "He is in," the doorwarden from the other side of the door chimed in. She seemed bright and happy. "Go right to him, he should be alone, and I'll be taking care of Nuts here, though that was a little harsh of you," she said, grinning. Asgarvain felt her mind lighten momentarily, and mustered up a smile for the young woman, resolving already to look up her name in the roster once she had time. If she had time, and would not be busy with war preparations come noon.

The door creaked open, and she entered the house with Handrin and Hwestonnen in tow. Unlike Himring, which had been built to use the rare northern sunlight to perfection, the main hall of Ereb was scantly lit. As a product of the Dagor Bragollach, it lacked the large windows, mirrors and lightwells in abundance wherever they proved no tactical weakness. Intended as a foothold against the orcs pouring into Ossiriand, Caranthir and the twins had hastily cobbled the fortress together, and it showed: Even though there had been some smoothing over of rough edges in between the wars, it remained a sturdy but miserable piece of architecture; dark, frequently damp, and often cold.

The door to the stairwell of Maedhros' apartments at the end of the hall stood wide open, but even below they could hear a woman's raised voice. There was only one person who had the audacity to treat the head of the House of Fëanor to such opposition; healer Idhlinn.

"I do not care to listen to your excuses for refusing breakfast, Maitimo. You know you will need to eat if you mean to stomach the tea.Would you like me to list the active components, or are you content to believe that it will lessen the pain unless you retch it up a second time?"

Maedhros' voice was far quieter, if still loud enough to carry clearly. He sounded tired. "I would thank you to stop calling me by that name, Estelindë, as you know. Bring more tea, then consider yourself dismissed."

Not only did Maedhros have company, they had come at a bad time. Asgarvain felt the urge to fetch her sword and vent her frustrations on the dummies in the training yard, and when she considered her companions they looked to be sharing at least the sentiment of getting away. While Handrin had flattened himself against the wall of the narrow staircase upon hearing the noise of Idhlinn's boots appproaching, Hwestonnen's hands had clenched into fists, and Asgarvain could see the grooves where his fingernails pressed into his palm.

He chose, to her surprise, to charge ahead, plowed up the stairs, shouldered past Idhlinn whose glare might have frozen anyone else, and into Maedhros' study. With a jolt, Asgarvain began moving after him - it was unlike Hwestonnen to rush headlong into anything, and there was no saying what he would do now - and ignored whether or not Handrin chose to follow. He would have done best staying out of this entirely, but even bowing out now would be better for him than accompanying them.

The moment she passed the door and pushed in front of Hwestonnen, Asgarvain dropped to one knee and bowed her head. "My lord Maedhros, forgive us the intrusion. We bring tidings about one of the Silmarils," she said, and waited for the explosion.

There was no explosion, nor outburst of any other kind. Instead, the room was startlingly silent, pierced only by Maedhros' harsh breaths. Asgarvain counted to six in her mind, slowly, and back to zero, before raising her head. Maedhros displayed as a still silhouette against the lit window, low and narrow but enough to let the winter sun slant into the room. He had not even risen from the chair behind his desk, but the rigid set of his shoulders told her that he had indeed heard.

She squinted against the light. "My lord Maedhros?" His eyes were closed, she saw now, ringed with dark circles, and whether he had been as pale before they came in, or whether her news had caused it, she did not know. His cheekbones jutted out of a hollow face. He was clearly unwell, and Asgarvain felt a pang of regret for failing to stop Hwestonnen barging in. She wet her lips and waited for a response.

"Bain, get up." But that was Handrin whispering urgently behind her, not Maedhros speaking, while Hwestonnen stood waiting his turn. She shook her head, not the least because she was unsure if her limbs would support her. Some respect, too, would not go amiss, and grasping Handrin's sleeve she pulled him down as well.

"My lord, I am not glad to have to report this. We are aware of the --- likely consequences." The word, kinslaying, lay like a stone on her tongue, but looking at Maedhros again, she hesitated to voice it, wondering if it even made a difference.

"Close the door." Maedhros was cradling his head in his left hand, and it was only now that she noticed the sling knotted around his neck, where his right arm rested. The stump, as always, was hidden away beneath an elongated sleeve. Asgarvain forced herself to avert her eyes, back to her lord's face to watch for reactions. Ever since his return from Angband, despite attempts to mask his emotions, he had become unable to hide them fully – now restrained shock and anger, and glimmers of joy, all lay open to those who knew how to read faces, but while she was still wondering about this strange mix, the click of the door made her jump. Hwestonnen had pushed it shut.

"Where is it?" Maedhros asked the same moment.

"In Doriath," Hwestonnen said.

Maedhros nodded sharply. "Who knows?"

"Only the people present in this room, my lord, and my wife, who will keep her silence."

"Thank you... commander," Maedhros said. Asgarvain saw his eyes open in a startling blink of light; they flicked over the badges of rank each of them wore. "Now explain. It is a grave claim to make that Dior is in possession of Lúthien's Silmaril."

Hwestonnen spoke up, stringing his words together with care. "My lord, with all due respect, I know you held the lady Lúthien in high esteem for her victory over the Enemy – we all do, it is impossible not to - but the stone is your father's and rightfully belongs to the House of ---"

"--- Dior Eluchíl, if I am reading the signs right and Lúthien has died indeed. It can be no other stone; there is none now who can repeat the deeds she and Beren wrought, and I will allow no discussion of its ownership." There was a decisive note in his voice that quenched any protest.

Tense silence fell. A muscle in Asgarvain's shoulder twinged, quickly and repeatedly, like a bird fluttering beneath her skin, but she did not dare avert her eyes from Maedhros, who, waiting, now leaned back in his chair and regarded all three of them with a mien that made her feel as though a hungry wolf was about to devour them. Her eyes had not deceived her; the flickers of joy did exist, and they were growing stronger the longer she studied her lord, until faintly and through a great distance, the words beneath Mindon Eldaliéva rang in her ears again. This swear we all: death we will deal him ere day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather!

"Good," Maedhros said, when none of the three voiced opposition. The chair creaked as he stood to gaze out at the snow-covered keep. "Tell me instead how you know that the jewel has come again to Doriath. Have you seen it?"

"No, my lord," Hwestonnen said, "or I would have attempted to bring it home." Asgarvain felt bile rise in her throat. She knew that Hwestonnen had fought fiercely in Alqualondë, but hearing him voice such casual disregard – or such a casual lie, if his shaken behaviour at arrival had been anything to go by - did not sit well with her.

"Lord Caranthir sent a handful of men to scout the northern reaches of Andram while we brought orders to the outpost on Amon Lenthir. We were to rely on speed and secrecy, but an enemy patrol scattered us, and I was driven into the hills alone, where a company of traders out of Doriath had made camp on their way to the coast. They spoke of nothing but the Silmaril before I revealed my presence, and when I did were anxious to conceal their high spirits. I am grateful that it is still so near the equinox, and the folk of Doriath abide by the Laws of the Eldar, otherwise they might have slain me instead of turning their talk toward the trade of fish while I shared their fire for the night."

Asgarvain swallowed hard. She had envisioned this encounter differently. Almost it seemed as though Hwestonnen's words, calm though they were, were only serving to incite the wolfish curiosity she had noticed earlier, rather than to placate it. Perhaps she had underestimated what an imposing force the Oath presented, if it was capable of transforming the exhausted man in front of her into Lord Maedhros Fëanorion within moments. Even his posture had straightened from defeat to certainty.

Handrin was figdeting beside her. He had never been the most patient or least excitable, but now he must have felt it as well, crouching in on himself with bent back and his eyes downcast like a child awaiting a chiding. He remained in this position until Maedhros turned back from the window to face them. Outside, clouds had rolled in that blocked the sun and threw the land into shadow. Snow had begun to fall again, and it was not hard to understand why this time was called the darkest season.

"My lord, if I may ask a question?" Handrin asked in a hesitant voice. Maedhros nodded, and Asgarvain hoped neither would make the season any darker by their actions. When Maedhros rounded the desk and his shadow fell on her, she winced involuntarily, only to tell herself to stop looking for symbols where none were. Maedhros stopped in front of Handrin. He shrugged free his stump and placed it underneath Handrin's chin to tip his head up.

"Soldier, what are your name and affiliation?" Maedhros asked.

"Handrin Edemmir Bronduinion, foot soldier in the host of lords Amrod and Amras -- my lord." Asgarvain could see his eyes widen, and his muscles tense in an effort not to squirm. Similar to his interest in Alqualondë, he knew the story of Maedhros' rescue by heart. Being faced with the consequence of it proved harder on him, and she once more resolved that she would do anything in her power to keep him from marching on Doriath.

"Ask your question, soldier Handrin."

Handrin took a moment to breathe deeply and gather his courage. He made a face as though he was preparing to bite through a piece of metal, but his eyes flicked through the room and to Asgarvain, and she dared a slight nod. Maedhros would press for the question either way now, for better or worse.

"My lord, how," he cleared his throat, "– how do you intend to get the Silmaril back? Will you attack Doriath as we feared?"

Maedhros regarded him with a bemused look, and as though Handrin's naive question had dispelled the threat hanging in the room, his shoulders sagged, and he withdrew his arm. Handrin released a breath. Any colour Maedhros' face might have held a moment ago was fading.

"Did you listen, soldier?" The tired note crept back into his voice. "I intend no such thing. If the jewel returns to us, then it will be by the grace of Thingol's Heir, not by any force from the Sons of Fëanor that exceeds the sending of messages. And I believe I have found the three who will deliver just such a message. I will send for you tonight for all further particulars; I must confer with Makalaurë and Carnistir before making any such decisions without their knowledge." Almost as an afterthought, or an aside to himself, he added, in a lower voice, "Turco and Curvo's absence has never been as convenient."

He sat down heavily behind his desk again. "Remember to keep this among yourselves only, for the time being. Dismissed."

Chapter End Notes

Amon Lenthir is an invention on my part, intended to mean 'Hill of Waterfalls', and situated near the Gates of Sirion.

Likewise, the idea of the Laws of the Eldar and the (especial) taboo of killing near an equinox was my idea, if based on an obscure bit of canon. When Eöl encounters Curufin in Himlad while he is pursuing Aredhel and Maeglin to Gondolin, Curufin states, 'Do not flaunt the title of your wife before me,' he said. 'For those who steal the daughters of the Noldor and wed them without gift or leave do not gain kinship with their kin. I have given you leave to go. Take it, and be gone. By the laws of the Eldar I may not slay you at this time. [...]'- and since the encounter takes place near the summer solstice, I took the liberty of making up and extending the custom to other solstices and equinoxes as well.

Lastly, This swear we all: death we will deal him ere day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! is an excerpt from Tolkien's verse version of the Oath of the Fëanorians.