Ungoliant's Bane by polutropos

The fog of sleep rolled in, claiming Eärendil’s wandering thoughts in its advance. The weight of his body sank into the mattress, his breaths eased into a slow and easy rhythm, his heart—

‘Help! Emiiig! Heeeeelp!’

—his heart lurched and broke into a gallop. His eyelids strained against the pull of sleep, and he was wrenched from the path of dreams and tossed into sudden wakefulness.

Beside him, Elwing stirred and made a tired but unperturbed humming sound. She stretched one arm back, seeking him, as he heaved his body upright on the bed.

‘’s all right. Nothing to worry,’ she mumbled, finding his forearm and squeezing. She rolled over to face him, saying with a sigh, ‘I leave them alone with Gereth for one afternoon and she fills their heads with terrible tales—’

This was interrupted by a second cry, ‘Stomp it dead!’ and the shrieked response, ‘No! You stomp it!’ followed by, ‘Get Emig!’

‘—terrible tales of Ungoliant. And of course some determined spider has been building a web in their room every night—’

‘Emig?’ Elrond stood in the doorway clutching his favourite quilt—one of two such that Círdan gifted to the boys at their birth. At four years old, Elrond still carried his everywhere.  

His little child’s voice pleaded, ‘There’s a spider ’gain.’ 

‘Again, sweets?’ said Elwing, propping herself on an elbow. Elrond nodded. 

‘Well,’ she said, ‘aren’t we lucky your Ada is home! He is a spider slayer.’ She nudged Eärendil with a foot beneath the covers. 

Elrond’s eyes slid to Eärendil and widened. ‘You are?’ His tiny mouth fell open. 

‘That’s right,’ Eärendil swung his legs off the bed, ‘I am.’

He scooped Elrond up from the floor. Briefly, his arms forgot how much bigger his sons had grown in the last year, and he strained slightly as he adjusted Elrond’s weight on his hips. The boy seemed not to notice, clinging to him with all four limbs.

‘Come, onya, let’s save your brother from the spider.’

Eärendil would not say he was scared of spiders, strictly speaking, but he did have to grit his teeth to hide his discomfort as he closed his hand around the skittering little creature. 

‘No, slay her!’ Elros protested, as Eärendil held his hand out of an open window. ‘She will come back!’

The spider dropped to the ground outside. Eärendil came to sit on the edge of the bed where the twins sat huddled up against the wall. ‘She won’t.’ He took one of their hands in each of his. ‘And if she dares, she will rue the day! Eärendil Liantenehtar does not show mercy twice. ’

Two incredulous faces stared back at him: Elrond with brows pulled together and Elros chewing at his lower lip.

‘How come no one said before you are Lant… Lanti…’ Elrond struggled over the Quenya. ‘A spider slayer, Ada?’ 

Eärendil seldom allowed the doubts of others to erode his trust in his own abilities, but at this moment his confidence was crumbling under the weight of his children's scepticism. He inhaled deeply, allowing love to swell his heart and displace his doubts. 

‘Because,’ he said, ‘it was only on my latest journey that I earned that name. Would you like to hear the story?’

‘Yes please!’ they chorused. 

It was impossible not to mirror the glee that overtook their expressions at the promise of a story, and Eärendil laughed as he settled between them on the bed. Elros clambered into his lap and Elrond tucked himself up against his side.

‘All right, listen,’ he said, looping an arm around each of them.

The press of their warm bodies against him doubled the love in his heart and it spilled over, tears gathering along the rims of his eyes. How he wished he could stay like this forever. 

He blinked the tears away and began. ‘The winds had carried Wingelótë far to the south of the world—’

‘How far?’ asked Elros.

‘Very, very far. Shores so far that no Elf or Man has set foot upon them. Even the Ainur have shunned that land for many ages of the world.’

Elrond turned his eyes up, amazed.

‘Yes, the uttermost South. A land barren of both <i>olvar</i> and <i>kelvar</i>. And do you know why?’

‘No,’ Elros said, and Elrond shook his head. ‘Tell us!’

‘Because long ago a terrible monster cast her webs of darkness about it, swallowing up all the life in her hunger.’

Elrond gasped. ‘Goliant?’

Eärendil tousled his hair, smiling. ‘Yes, that’s right! Ungweliantë, Gloomweaver. She fled there in her madness, after the the fiery whips of the Valaraukar drove her from the North.’

‘’Reth told us this story,’ Elros said. 

‘Did she?’

‘Mhm.’ He nodded sharply. ‘And I don’t like it. Goliant ate up all the bootiful jewels and Mo’goth screamed–’

‘Yes, a very dark tale. A sad tale.’ Eärendil kissed the crown of Elros’ head. ‘But I think you will like the next part.’

The boys snuggled closer.

‘As we drifted further and further south, great gusts stirred up the sea. For fourteen nights and as many days Wingelótë was tossed about in the storm–’

‘Did you drowned?’ Elros asked earnestly.

‘No, my Elerossë,’ Eärendil smiled to himself, ‘we were all safe. Wingelótë is a strong ship. She kept us afloat. But when at last the storm spat us out, lo! we found ourselves beneath a starless sky. We knew not where we were. And where there had been land, there was only endless black. We were adrift in the dark, nothing but dark, dark, dark in all directions.’

‘Ada,’ said Elrond in a frightened voice, ‘you said we would like this.’

‘Right,’ said Eärendil. ‘Yes, I am coming to that part. Out of the dark came an even blacker dark. An absence of light.’

‘Goliant!’ both boys exclaimed at once.

‘Yes, the Gloomweaver. For she took shape, a giant spider, and reared back on her many legs. Her belly was aglow with all she had consumed. Wingelótë drifted straight towards her black beak.’

Elrond shuddered and Elros clung to his wrist.

‘But fear could not conquer the spirit for your Atar! No, for in that moment of darkness I remembered your Amil, and you — your laughter and your delight — and I took courage. I stood upon the prow and cried out in defiance: “Get thee gone, fell monster! Return to the Void whence thou camest!” And I held aloft the great axe Tarambor, which your grandsire Tuor Ulmondil once wielded, and behold! a white flame leapt from its blade, and Ungweliantë hissed and recoiled before its brightness, and her many eyes were illuminated by it, and she was afraid. But though it pained her, her hunger for the light drew her back. Then I waited. Her evil breath was upon my face, whipping my hair behind me. I heard the clack of her black beak opening to swallow Wingelótë and everyone on it. 

‘I swung my father’s mighty axe! Six times I swung, and six times the Gloomweaver cried out in agony. I wavered, clinging to courage, but with the seventh blow I rent the length of her reeking belly, and behold! it spilled forth many thousands of jewels, every one as bright as a Silmaril, and they were scattered out into the dark, and it was not dark; for the jewels stuck to the dome of the sky like stars. And as the carcass of Ungweliantë fell to ruin, and there upon our left were the coasts of Middle-earth, and we were not lost. By the blessing of Manwë and Ulmo, we were not forty leagues from Sirion, and we were carried thence on favouring winds and swift currents. Thus, once and forever, Ungweliantë the Terrible was felled, and no more, while Arda lasts, shall she weave her nets of gloom.’

As he ended the story, Eärendil heaved a sigh, having made himself rather breathless with the excitement of it. Both boys stared up at him in rapt silence.

‘So Goliant is gone?’ Elrond asked at last. ‘Forever?’

‘Yes,’ said Eärendil. ‘So you see, you need not fear. She will trouble the world no more.’

‘But her spawn!’ said Elros.  

Eärendil smiled. ‘You need not worry about her spawn. They are powerless without her. Besides, I do not think many will dare come near once they learn Ungweliantë’s Bane dwells at the Havens.’

Elros’ face lit up. ‘You are staying?’

‘Ah,’ Eärendil clasped Elros’ hand, running his thumb over the soft palm. ‘For some time, yes.’

‘’til our birthday?’ asked Elrond.

‘Yes, certainly until your birthday.’

Falling into silence, it was not long before the three of them had lapsed into sleep. Eärendil awoke to the touch of Elwing’s hand on his arm.

She whispered, ‘Though I could happily watch you like this for hours, I think your neck will thank you in the morning if you come to your own bed.’

Eärendil carefully untangled himself from the twins and pulled as much of the cover over them as he could without waking them. 

As they were climbing back into their own bed, Elwing said, ‘That was quite the tale.’

‘Oh?’ A flush of heat reached the tips of Eärendil’s ears. ‘You were listening?’

‘You were gone a long time. I came to make sure they were not holding you hostage. Well! when I heard that you faced Ungoliant, how could I not stay to hear the end of that tale?’

Eärendil drew the blanket up and shuffled closer. ‘I did not bestow the title of Spider Slayer upon myself.’

Elwing’s mouth split into a grin, her teeth a flash of white in the dark room. ‘I was not expecting to learn you had slain the Gloomweaver herself.’

‘Did you not?’ Eärendil tutted, feigning offence. ‘You underestimate me!’

‘Mm,’ she said, eyes falling shut. ‘No, I assure you I do not. Good night, Liantenehtar.’ 

Chapter End Notes

Translations

Emig (Sindarin) = mum
onya (Quenya) = my child
Liantenehtar (Quenya, my invention) = spider slayer

Canon for the curious
As I often do (but especially because of the nature of this challenge!) I’ve put ‘canon’ in a blender. 

• That Eärendil spoke four languages/dialects (Sindarin; Quenya; Hadorian and Bëorian Taliska) comes from The Problem of Ros (HoMe XII: Peoples of Middle-earth). Here he is speaking Quenya to his kids.
• Gereth is a character named in Tale of Nauglafring (HoMe II: BoLT 2) who escaped the second kinslaying with toddler Elwing. 
• Tarambor is an Early Quenya form of Dramborleg, the axe Tuor wields in The Fall of Gondolin (HoMe II: BoLT 2). It doesn’t hold up linguistically, but it sounds cool so I used it. 
• In the Tale of Years C (HoMe XI: War of the Jewels), Eärendil’s voyages begin when Elrond and Elros are 2. Nothing says he never comes back between then and the third kinslaying. (In fact, the ‘many fruitless voyages’ referred to in The Problem of Ros suggest he did.) 

Maglor nudged another log into the dying fire. A flame leapt from its centre, reilluminating the two bodies to his right. He stole a glance at them and was met by the same condemning stares that had followed him since Sirion. 

Or so he read them, finding in their vacant expressions confirmation of his guilt. He would later learn—remember—that children felt in ways uncomplicated by the weight of years. Six-year-olds did not concern themselves with handing out judgements. And at that moment, Elrond and Elros felt only fear.

But Maglor, who knew little of children, imagined that their refusal to speak or to move was purposeful. He imagined their refusal to come into the tent and out of the biting wind was a test to discover if he would leave them for the wolves to find. 

He blinked and looked away. Had Dior’s sons been so small? Maedhros might remember but, like these children, he had stopped speaking. And he was gone. Two nights ago, with those few who still followed him, because their loyalty was all they had left. The last shred of good in their barren souls.

Maedhros hadn’t said as much (he had said nothing), but the children were a burden on the road. 

Or so Maglor had thought, then. The truth, he would learn, is that Maglor’s remorse was a burden his brother’s heart could not bear.

Maglor pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and thought, ‘If the wolves come, let them take me, too.’ 

He glanced again at the two huddled forms. The larger one had turned his attention to something on the log beside him, and Maglor followed his gaze to a spider, as big as the tip of his thumb, completely still. The boy eyed it warily. 

Maglor kicked up a leg and pinned the spider beneath the toe of his boot. 

'No!' the child broke his silence. The other looked as shocked as his brother sounded. 'You killed it!' He turned a face contorted with disbelief and anger on Maglor.

‘It’s a spider,’ said Maglor, fumbling for a defence he had not expected he’d need to make. ‘They bite.’

‘You killed it for no reason!’

‘I thought you were scared—’

‘They cannot hurt us,’ said the smaller one. 

Maglor shrugged and bared his palms, defeated. ‘All right. I’m sorry.’ 

The words, Will you forgive me? had the sense to die on his tongue. The children retreated back into silence and shielded themselves with steely glares. Maglor squinted up at the blanket of dark clouds that promised more heavy rains. 

‘Are you scared of spiders?’ 

‘What?’ Maglor turned to find the smaller one—Elrond—watching him with an earnest expression. 

‘You killed it because you’re scared?’

‘No,’ said Maglor. ‘It just…’ 

‘You do not need to be scared,’ said Elrond. 

Elros added, ‘Our Ada slayed Ungoliant.’

A laugh leapt into Maglor’s throat and he had to hold his fist to his mouth to stifle it. 

‘He did,’ Elros asserted with a defensive bite. Maglor’s reaction had not escaped his notice.

‘Yes, I’m sure he did,’ said Maglor, gentling. An unconvincing performance, it seemed, for the two children continued to scrutinise him intently.

‘How come you don’t know the story?’ asked Elros, crinkling his nose. ‘Everyone knows the story. Uncle Círdan made a song.’

‘Where is Círdan?’ asked Elrond. ‘I want to go home.’

Maglor winced. At first, he’d ignored the questions. Then he’d lied, but it was not long before the lies turned to rot in his stomach. So he told the truth, or pieces of it. 

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I cannot take you home. It is not safe to go back that way. We are going to my home.’

‘Your home is far.’ Elros pouted.

‘I know. But we are almost there.’

There had been opportunity to make a different choice, but Maglor, grieving, had let it slip by. At the time, keeping them, guarding them, had seemed the only way to undo what his brother had begun. No—not begun. Amrod’s last actions, whatever they were, were but one stride in a long and accelerating march of cruelties.  

The death of a spider was the latest; so said the disapproving stares of the children.

What his little brother had intended to do with Elwing’s sons, Maglor would never know. She, at least, believed they had already been slain—so said their nurse, before she too died. Perhaps he would have. Perhaps the madness that had festered in Amrod since Alqualondë had, at the last, wholly consumed him. Bile rose in Maglor’s throat. It should not be possible to even think it. Not of Amrod.

‘Ada will be home soon.’ 

The voice, tremulous as it was, was a welcome release from the mire of his thoughts. 

‘Why can’t we go home?’ Elros asked, as if this time it might bring about the answer he hoped to hear. 

‘It is not safe,’ Maglor said, again.

Because there are legions of orcs between us and Sirion. Because Morgoth has shut the path he’d left open for the Oath to do his work for him. How obvious that was now. 

Maglor finished shredding a bit of decaying wood between his fingers, tossed the pieces of the ground, and said, ‘Would you tell me the story of how your Adar slew Ungoliant?’

The boys looked at each other. They nodded in unison, but seemed to be awaiting further prompting.

‘All right,’ said Maglor. ‘Where was it?’  

‘East—’ said one, at the same time the other said, ‘South—’ and they both said, ‘No!’ and then Elros said, ‘Oh! South.’

‘Let me tell it,’ said Elrond. 

Elros pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. ‘Hmph.'

‘Win’glot went far, far, far.’ Elrond pulled a tiny arm out of the blanket to emphasise how far. ‘And it was very dead, and, and—dark. There was a big black sky. And Goliant—Ungoliant—opened her beak. Clack clack.’ The boy created the sound effect with his tongue on the roof of his mouth and grinned. Maglor could not help but smile back. ‘But Ada held his Ada’s sword aloft!’

‘Not sword,’ Elros corrected. ‘Axe.’

Elrond ignored him. ‘And belo!’

‘Behold,’ said Elros.

‘Belode! Ungoliant coiled.’ He made a trilling sound and spun his hands around each other. ‘And Ada rented her belly and out ’sploded one thousand shiny jewels! And belode! One thousand stars alighted the sky, bright as a Sil’aril! And then, and then, and then…’ He trailed off, looking to his brother for help.

‘Ulmo and Manwë,’ said Elros, ‘blew Wing’lot back home.’

‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘So Ungoliant is gone forever and spiders cannot hurt us and you should let them live.’

‘A good story.’ said Maglor, voice catching as he grasped at the fleeting sensation of unravelling in the tight space between his ribs—there!—tried to dredge it up—but no. It was gone, and his eyes were dry. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. Steady, flat. ‘I will not kill any more spiders.’

Their mouths fell back into two lines. But when Maglor looked at their faces—no longer fixed on him, but watching the fire—he thought he saw a little more softness there. Elros’ eyelids drooped, his head tipped forward and then adjusted to rest against his brother’s shoulder instead. 

Maglor followed Elrond’s gaze and watched the flames leap and lick at the firewood. As words took shape, he murmured softly:

‘In driest deserts    of the distant South
did foul Ungoliant    spin her nets of night—’

He paused, searching for the next line, and found Elrond’s eyes turned on him, and Elros’ squinting open. Maglor’s lips twitched around a smile. He resumed, more clearly this time.

‘And to that place    was brave Eärendil borne.
Wingelot keeled,    the winds keened—’

A clumsy line, but the boys’ attention was rapt.

‘And lo! spider loomed,    her black beak clacked.’

Elrond smiled sleepily.

‘Upon the prow    did Eärendil defy her,
With sire’s axe    her belly slit.
Therefrom gems,    jewels a thousand
as stars a thousand    to inky Ilmen stuck.
Thus was monster    by mariner slain,
And by brave Eärendil,    Spider’s bane, 
of spiders’ malice    an end was made.’

Admittedly the poem needed some work, but in this case Maglor was glad to have lulled his audience to sleep. He waited a while longer, humming quietly to the rhythm of their easy breaths. Then, carefully, he bent and scooped them up, one in each arm. As he stood, Elros’ head lolled back, and Maglor adjusted to tip it forward. His breaths were warm on Maglor’s neck. 

Maglor carried them back into the tent, lying them down on the bedroll, where they naturally shuffled together. Reluctantly, he went back out to keep watch. If the wolves came, Maglor would slay them all.

But nothing threatened their repose that night, save one small spider that came to rest on his boot. Maglor let it be.

Chapter End Notes

For poetry month, I have attempted my own spin on alliterative verse for this chapter. If there’s any metrical pattern to this, I assure you it’s entirely accidental.

Throwing Amrod under the bus here is not without canonical support. In the Later Annals of Beleriand (HoMe V: The Lost Road), Tolkien wrote: ‘Here Damrod and Díriel [=Amrod and Amras] ravaged Sirion, and were slain. Maidros and Maglor were there, but they were sick at heart.’ This work of 1930-37 dates to the same period as the Quenta Noldorinwa (1930), the text that was the basis for the account of the third kinslaying in the published Silmarillion.