i don't want suffering to offer its thesis by atlantablack

I don't want suffering to offer its thesis I want out
of exile and back to a garden where we can confuse

innocence with goodness I want the christening of thunder
My loves witches a second chance from the bottom of the sea

I believe in the way ice heals itself in the way a fish accepts
the lesson of the hook

"Dear Eros," | Traci Brimhall

☀︎

Elwing is three when Doriath falls. She grows up only remembering fractures of her family - part memory, part story. Never sure how much is her own and how much is hearsay and rumor. Grows up hearing whispers of the kinslayers, the monsters but never said to her face. They must not scare her she hears them say, as if she has not been terrified every day since she was smuggled out of Doriath.

She does not know if it would help things to have a name or a face to put the fear to. Something more than horror stories to be scared of. She is terrified of these kinslayers and has no name for them other than monster. But still the attendants tell her nothing. Instead they weave glittering stories at bed time of Doriath at its best. The caves filled with laughter, waterfalls spilling down the walls, her grandmother’s laughter like spring, her father glimmering in the sun as he rode to fight, her mother all smiles and good cheer. She does not find out for a very long time that those are only very small parts of them and the truth is so much more complicated.

Once she is deemed old enough, an age she will later realize was not old enough at all, Delion, one of her father’s old advisors, sits her down and explain that she is leader of those left from Doriath. She is responsible for them, for their safety. He tells her of Doriath and its founding. Tells her of her grandmother and grandfather stealing a silmaril from Morgoth himself and how the kinslayers have been wanting to steal it back ever since. He looks almost surprised when she has to ask who Morgoth is.

And then he explains Morgoth and orcs and dragons and balrogs and wars fought in not so distant places and all she hears is, monsters. More monsters in the dark. Does it make them less monstrous that they are not slaying kin? Is that why she has never heard whispers of them before?

He tells her the war is not their concern for now. That the havens are safe. Even at eleven she knows that is a lie. But it is a comforting one and so she does not challenge it.

She is sixteen when she looks at the maps and finally properly understands. Finally hears the words Delion is not saying. Safe for now. It looks like so much space between them and the worst of the enemy but in reality, if Morgoth were to decide that he wanted them dead it would take very little effort on his part at all.

She is sixteen when she finally comprehends the stories that Eärendil’s family tells about the fall of Gondolin. When she comprehends the size of Gondolin. She holds the havens up against it and finally comprehends how terribly small they are. How much easier they would be to destroy.

She sits alone in her room and pulls the silmaril out. Stares at it in the dark until the light makes her cry. Weighs the blood of her kin staining the Fëanorians hands against the yet unspilled blood of the people she’s been told are her responsibility. Holds the question she’s never been able to answer in her hands and makes herself think — what makes a monster? She knows what her advisors say. She knows what her people whisper. She knows their blood will run red regardless of which set of monsters end up finally coming for them.

Her memories of Doriath are fractures but in her dreams she thinks she remembers more than in waking. Wakes up from images of blood staining stone. Screams caught in the air. A bloody red handprint around her tiny wrist. Her own voice over and over, where is nana, where is ada, where is nana, where is ada, where are my hanar. She remembers the twins not at all. Would not know they existed if she had not been told. She is a younger sister and that should mean being protected but to her it means nothing at all because they were dead before they could grow enough to protect her.

She squeezes the silmaril in her hand until her fingers cramp and then tucks it away. She does not tell anyone where she keeps it. They do not ask. It’s blood bought many times over and she does not want to tempt anyone else. She keeps it in a pouch around her waist, tucked into the waistband of her skirt so as to not be visible. Close by and out of sight.

What makes a monster, she wonders again, tucking the silmaril away. The next day she stands on a hill overlooking Sirion and watches the children shriek and laugh as they play. Watches her people play at being content in this mirage of safety they have created. Eärendil does not say anything when he comes to stand next to her, only takes her hand, and she wishes that she could ignore all of the problems and simply be a girl in love. Knows that if not for all the blood spilled they likely would never have met. She doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I think I’m going to do something incomparably stupid,” she tells him. “Do you want to help?”

He looks at her consideringly, hair windswept and eyes so very blue. “Will it be dangerous?”

“Very I would think.”

“Alright,” he says with a nod, “when do we start?”

☀︎

She’s sixteen when she tells Eärendil her, admittedly, shaky plan. He stares at her for a very long time after she finishes explaining, looks down at the silmaril she’s pulled out to show him, the first person she’s ever shown it to since she was old enough to dress herself and thus able to hide it without anyone the wiser.

“You were right. That is an absolutely incomparably stupid plan,” he says, looking back up at her. “But I will not let you do it on your own and I will not betray your trust.”

She laughs, half relief, half delight. Kisses him with the sea behind them and the sun warm on their skin. “Incomparably stupid it may be but no one else is doing anything and they are my people.”

“Some of them are mine too,” he reminds her, “I do not think my parents will forgive me for this but I would rather them safe than myself forgiven.”

He kisses her again and she thinks that if they survive this, one day she’s going to marry him.

☀︎

When she is sixteen she sneaks from her room and meets Eärendil on the outskirts of the havens where he is waiting with two horses.They ride for Amon Ereb because, as Elwing had said when she’d told Eärendil, why fight monsters on two sides when she is holding the only thing that could make the kinslayers into their protectors instead?

What she does not tell him is that there is also a part of her that wants to look the kinslayers in the face and demand an apology. Demand recompense for all the blood they’ve spilled. She wants to look a monster in the face and see if she can figure out what it is that makes it monstrous. She wants to stop living in constant fear for herself and her people.

Mostly, she just wants a chance to live.

☀︎

She has not left Sirion since she arrived there, three years old and still crying for her parents. There has never been a reason and the roads are dangerous. Everywhere is dangerous. Eärendil has a sword and she has her bow. She has not learned to wield a sword and she wishes now that she had.

The first three days go easily enough for all that they cannot relax even an inch. They dig through their memories of the stories Idril and Tuor had told of their flight from Gondolin and they do not light fires at night, they speak quietly, they sleep in shifts. Their luck still runs out on the fourth day.

It is only a small orc party of three and they see the orcs before the orcs see them. It gives Elwing a chance to string an arrow and send it flying. Eärendil swings from his horse and draws his sword, knowing he will fight better on his feet as he was trained to, but there is still something dreadfully terrifying about fighting an enemy for the first time.

He kills the second orc and spins to find the third advancing on Elwing, who even as he turns, swings sideways on her house and with a grim face jumps and violently stabs an arrow into the orc's neck. Eärendil is there spearing him through on his sword before it can do her any damage in return.

“That was foolish,” he tells her, even though she already knows. “I might not have made it over in time.”

She snorts, looking down at the bloodstains on the hem of her dress in dismay. “This entire endeavor is foolish. I may as well continue it in the same way I’ve started.”

He does not agree but he also does not argue with her and that is enough for her. They find their horses not far away and  ride faster than they would have otherwise, unsure if there are other orcs nearby and not wanting to find out.

☀︎

The fifth and sixth day they ride long and hard, stopping only when they must for fear of over taxing their horses. Neither of them say it but they both know that the faster they reach Amon Ereb the safer they will be. There is no guarantee of their reception when they arrive but she would rather take her chances with kinslayers who may at least care to listen to her words before they try to kill her than with the orcs who will care for nothing other than her pain.

She wonders if that is part of the answer to her question. It doesn’t feel like it but it also feels important.

They are less than a day’s ride from Amon Ereb by their estimate when their luck runs out in the most devastating of ways. If it had been another small scouting party of orcs she thinks they would have been fine. But they ride right into a camp of them without warning. There were no fires lit, no noise. She cannot help but think they were lying in wait for just a situation like this.

They don’t bother trying to fight when the arrows come shooting towards them. They are outnumbered and have no wish to die in a pointless fight. Instead they spur their horses onward on a direct path through the camp. The arrows fly towards them and a searing pain in her leg follows shortly after.

She swallows her scream through sheer force of will and an urgent, desperate desire to not distract Eärendil and cause him injury as well.

They flee but the orcs follow, shooting more arrows, and in one case, nearly hitting Eärendil’s leg, an axe thrown with terrifying force through the air. They make it clear of the camp but not much farther before her horse screams in pain and goes down hard, throwing her from its back and flying through the air. She thinks she screams when she lands, the arrow in her leg jarred terribly, and a sharp, pulsing pain originating from the back of her head.

She takes too long to move, she knows she does, but by the time she manages to grit her teeth and open her eyes it doesn’t matter. She wonders if she had in fact passed out briefly, for there is suddenly a host of other elves fighting the orcs. She does not see Eärendil. She does see an orc light eyes on her and grin in a way that will haunt her nightmares. It does not make it to her before an elf taller than any she’s ever seen moves in front of her and slaughters it.

The elf’s hair is the reddest hair she’s ever seen and in the back of her mind, under the fog of pain, she thinks that should be important, but she can’t quite figure out why. She also can’t quite seem to make herself move to get up now that the immediate danger is gone. Everything hurts and her vision is grey around the edges and she is hopeful that these elves will help when the fight is over. The arrow had pierced her upper thigh and the pain ripples through her with even the tiniest shift of her leg.

An elf with long dark hair falls to his knees next to her, giving her what is maybe supposed to be a comforting smile but falls extremely short. “Sorry my lady, I’m going to have to lift your skirts to tend to that.”

She thinks she makes a vague noise of assent, absently grateful that the simaril is on the other side of her waist. She tries desperately to pay attention to what it is he’s doing, even more so when she fuzzily hears quiet singing that she knows is important, but his hand touches the arrow and the pain that it sends through her is finally too much.

As the grey steals across her vision she has a moment of clarity — Maglor Fëanorian, she thinks, is a monster still a monster if it saves her life?

☀︎

She wakes to quiet and a dull ache in her thigh that is leagues better than how she lasts remembers the pain. Blinks her eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling and spends a long moment just staring at it. It’s almost surprising really to still be alive. She is thankful for it but there had been a moment where a small part of her had stared at the inevitability of her incoming death and she had… she had thought of her mother, of her father, her brothers. What a staggering thought, to be so relieved to be alive and yet so terribly sad that it will still be so long until she sees her family again.

She lets out a deep sigh and then pushes herself up into a sitting position, careful to not move her leg more than she can help. She is not, she sees, as alone as she had first thought, Eärendil is asleep on a bed next to hers. He looks well, she thinks. Perhaps a shade too pale but he is breathing and near her so that is well enough for now she hopes. She presses a hand to the pouch at her waist, relieved to find it still there.

She is aware enough now to know who exactly had saved them. She does not know how to feel about it. There’s a half-formed thought of the symbolism of blood spilled, blood saved. But considering they shouldn’t have spilled any blood to begin with it is a ridiculous thought.

There is a glass of water on the table next to her and she drinks, grateful to whoever left it. She wishes she could get up and go find someone to explain what has happened, but she doesn’t think her leg would hold her even if she was stupid enough to try and walk on it right now.

She ends up doing nothing other than watching Eärendil sleep, idly thinking about weddings and whether Idril and Tuor will even want her as a law-daughter now that she’s dragged their son off into danger. She’s not sure how long she spends aimlessly thinking before the door to what must be a healing room creaks open.

The elf that steps through has that same shocking red hair but is far shorter than the towering figure she’d watched slaughter an orc. She has no idea who he is but he must be a Fëanorian as well if his hair is also that shade of red. He meets her eyes and pauses half-way in the room.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake yet,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to Eärendil and back.

“I have been for a while. I was hoping someone could tell me what happened after I passed out,” she says, nodding her head to the chair next to her bed.

“Ah,” he hesitates, a conflicted look in his eyes. “I should probably get my brother to explain truly. I can go get him now, it will only be a moment.”

“Why?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in judgement. “Do you not know the thread of lies he’s going to tell me?”

The conflict melts into indignant offense. “He is not going to lie to you, my lady. But he is the lord of the fortress and so it is his right to explain the situation.”

She studies him, the red that’s risen to his face at the offense she’s given, and the loose, nonthreatening posture he’s being careful to display. “Yes, very well. If you must. But first, tell me your name.”

“Amrod,” he says, eyes sharp as he watches for a reaction she refuses to give. “And may I know yours my lady?”

“My companion didn’t tell you?”

“He told us that your name was yours to disclose and only yours.” He’s amused by that she can tell.

“Well, you can tell Lord Maedhros that Elwing of Doriath has come to speak with him but that I would rather not do it from a bed if it’s all the same to him.”

Amrod laughs, too loud if the way Eärendil stirs is any indication. “Ai, I will let him know, Lady Elwing. Your companion has been shown where our dining area is. Once he wakes come join us.” He strides across the room and pulls a jar of something from a cabinet, likely why he’d come in the first place, and then leaves with a nod to her.

Elwing sighs once he’s gone no closer to deciding how she feels about any of this at all. She is sure that was some sort of test but to what end she could not begin to say. They don’t know you have the silmaril, she tells herself, there’s no need to worry yet.

Eärendil shifts again, drawing her attention as his face flickers from sleep to wakefulness. He smiles when he opens his eyes and sees her. She smiles helplessly back.

“You scared me,” he says, rising and sitting on the edge of her bed so that he can hold her hand. “When your horse threw you, you did not move to rise and I thought you were dead.” He says it so quietly she has to strain to hear the words.

“Yes, I think I passed out. But I woke for a moment and saw Maedhros Fëanorian save me from being killed by an orc. I saw Maglor Fëanorian go to his knees to tend to my wound. I do not know what happened after that.”

He sighs, presses a kiss to her hand. “You were flung from your horse and I had jumped from mine to go to your side when the Fëanorians came rushing through the trees, drawn by your scream I think. They are… vicious fighters,” he says, mouth twisted in distress. “I suppose I have never seen a true fight before but they still struck me as vicious. By the time I reached your side Lord Maglor was already singing a song of healing as he pulled the arrow from your leg. It was not a very good song.”

“Was it not? I have heard that he is a very powerful singer?” And her leg does not feel as if it is in danger of killing her.

Eärendil grimaces. “He said that he has too much blood on his hands for his songs of healing to be truly effective. But it was enough to hold you over until we reached the fortress and a true healer could help you.”

“I think then, that I am surprised any true healers would follow them.” How does one heal and yet follow those who are kinslayers? Does that not twist a soul itself.

“I did not ask,” he says with a shrug. “I was more concerned with making sure you were well. And then the healer was insistent on wrapping my arm where an orc caught it with a sword. It did not seem like a good time to ask such a question.”

“Did they say anything to you? Did you tell them anything?”

“They asked our names. I gave them mine and refused yours. They asked our business and I told them it was yours and that I would not speak for you. One of the twins, Amras, showed me where the dining area is and gave me food. I think Maedhros guessed your name but he did not say anything if so.”

She nods, considers the matter, and decides nothing can be done until she has a chance to talk to the monsters herself. “Well, it will be an indignity for you to have to carry me into the dining area but it would be more of an indignity to hold the conversation while I am in bed.” She pauses, taking stock of her body again. “I also would dearly love a warm meal.”

He laughs and kisses her. “That I believe I can promise they will give you as they gave me. Come, I will carry you and attempt to make the indignity as little as I can.”

☀︎

The dining area is farther than she thought it would be but she supposes it matters not if they are given the freedom of traveling without a guard in the fortress. It is not as if they can leave with her leg as it is. They only pass one person on the way there, an elf walking briskly down the hall in the opposite direction. The elf dips his head in acknowledgment but does not otherwise greet them.

All of the Fëanorians are in the dining area when they enter and they all stand in greeting. She sees now that the one she talked to must be the twin of the one Eärendil spoke of. Eärendil sets her on her feet carefully and she keeps the foot of her wounded leg raised off the floor. Eärendil is still providing her with support but she is determined to greet these people while standing. 

“Princess Elwing,” Maedhros says, inclining his head respectfully. He does not bow. She had not expected him to. “Welcome to Amon Ereb. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Thank you,” she says, inclining her head in turn. She does not think he deserves it. She does not want to offend someone she is at the mercy of. “I appreciate the rescue and the healing provided by your healer.”

He smiles wryly. “I do believe it is the least we could do for you all things considered.” The twins shift uncomfortably. Maglor has not stopped staring at her with a piercing expression since she entered.

“All things considered,” she repeats, a strangled laugh escaping her. “If we are to take all things into consideration I would say you owe me quite a bit more than a timely rescue and a bit of healing.” There is perhaps too much bitterness in her voice to be polite but she can’t find it in herself to care. Eärendil’s hand tightens on her waist but Maedhros only gives her a queer smile as Maglor lets out a quiet laugh of his own.

“Indeed, you would be correct,” Maglor says, piercing gaze lightening the slightest bit as he gestures to the seat across from Maedhros. “Please, sit. You should not be putting weight on your leg. We will have food brought for you.”

Eärendil helps her into the seat and she bites back a relieved sigh. She feels disgusting and desperately wants a bath. Her body aches. But she is alive and being offered a meal. She should likely feel grateful. She rather feels like she would just like to be back in Sirion.

Maedhros and Maglor sit down across from her and Eärendil. The twins remain standing, staring intently at Maedhros with a question clear on their faces. He sighs after a quiet moment of ignoring them and gives a sharp gesture with his hand. “Yes, you can go. Away with you both.”

The twins chorus thank you, nod at her, and then nearly bolt out of the room. She is jealous of them she thinks. How easy it was for them to leave and allow others to handle everything. The jealousy tries to bring her anger up from where she’s stored it and she shoves it back down.

“I must ask,” Maedhros says, “did you just happen to be passing near us or was this your destination?”

“This was our intended destination of course. I can’t imagine where else in this area we would have reason to go.”

“And you both came here alone? Do your people care so little for you that they would send no guard?”

“I—” she hesitates. Realizes she had not actually thought of how this would look. Had been so focused on getting here and the bargain she wants to strike that she hadn’t given thought to much else. “I wanted to come on my own,” she ends up saying after the hesitation has stretched too long.

“You snuck away,” Maglor says, eyes still piercing through her. “A dangerous plan to come here with only your intended for protection. You know who we are.”

“Are you going to add my blood to your hands as well?” she asks meeting his stare. “I would think if you wanted me dead it would have been easier to leave us to the orcs.”

“No,” Maedhros says, the word very heavy. “We have no intentions of harming you, princess. But my brother is right, it was a dangerous thing to do.”

She looks at him and is not sure why, maybe it’s the tense line of his shoulders or the way he’s rubbing the golden ribbon tied to the end of his marred arm between his fingers, but she is suddenly sure he knows she has the silmaril on her body.

“Saying you have no intention to do us harm does not mean you won’t,” Eärendil says softly. He is not wearing his sword but his hand is very close to the knife next to his plate.

Maedhros nods but does not look away from her. “It does not. But we truly wish you no harm. I hope we are not given reason to.”

Her food arrives then and they do not ask her any other questions while she eats. Instead talking between themselves about trivial news from the north. Eärendil does not move his hand away from the knife and her affection for him fills her chest so thoroughly for a moment that she can feel nothing else.

“Well, I believe I will ask the question then,” Maglor says once she’s finished eating. “Why have you come here, princess? Why leave the safety of Sirion to visit the kinslayers?” The smile pulling at his mouth is neither gleeful like she would expect of a monster or grieving as she would expect of any other elf. It is instead a bitter, hateful smile. It does not make her feel better that the smile does not seem to be directed at her.

“Is it safe?” she asks. “Sirion. Are we safe there?”

“Ah,” Maedhros says, leaning back in his chair. “How old are you, princess?”

“Sixteen,” she says frowning. “What does it matter?”

Maglor is blinking rather rapidly and Maedhros has that golden ribbon wrapped tightly around his fingers. “You are very young,” Maedhros says, sighing heavily when she glares at him. “It is not an insult, only a fact. You have only just realized the threat that Morgoth poses have you not?”

“My advisor say that Sirion is safe. That we need not concern ourselves with the war.” She tips her chin up, says, “I believe he is wrong.”

“He was likely trying to spare you the worry,” Maedhros says. “Foolish of him clearly. No, Sirion is not safe. Nowhere is truly safe anymore. But it will be a while still till the enemy reaches that far south. They would have to get past Andram to reach you and we patrol from here to the Gates of Sirion as much as we can, which hinders them for now.”

“But not forever,” she says, unsure how to feel that the thing partly responsibly for keeping Sirion safe are the monsters who sent them fleeing there to begin with.

“No, not forever. Why have you come here, princess.”

She breathes deeply, considers lying. Wonders what he will do if she tries to leave with the silmaril on her person and not offered as a bargain. Discards the thought. She did not come all this way for nothing. “I wish to bargain for protection for Sirion. Some of us know how to fight, yes. But we are refugees, not warriors. If Morgoth were to send monsters after us we would fall. If monsters were just to stumble upon us we would still likely fall. I want you to swear that you will defend us if a fight comes to us.”

Maglor flinches, says quietly, “We will swear no more oaths than we have already foolishly sworn.”

“Does the one you have conflict with what I wish?” she asks, brow furrowing in confusion. She would not have thought it mattered unless his current one was to attack Sirion or something similar.

Maglor blinks at her, looks to Maedhros. Maedhros is possibly looking at her, but it feels more as if he’s looking through her. His expression is very far away and she thinks if he holds that ribbon any tighter it may rip. Maglor must see the same thing for he sighs and gently touches Maedhros on the arm. “Russo, you will rip it, and then you will be a right fright to live with.”

It takes a moment but Maedhros blinks and looks down at his hand frowning. He gently unwraps the ribbon from his fingers and lets it dangle from the arm it's tied to. Clenches his fingers into a fist. “I suppose they wouldn’t tell you,” he says, not looking away from his clenched fist. “Or perhaps they do not know. We have sworn an oath to reclaim our father’s silmarils. Even were we willing to swear another oath, we could not swear to protect Sirion when you likely hold one of  our father’s silmarils there.”

It takes a moment for the implication of that to sink in. Eärendil gets it first she thinks, listening to the hissed breath he draws in.

“And how long do you plan on waiting before attacking us yourself? Should we be worrying that the monsters called kinslayers will slaughter us before Morgoth gets a chance.” She barely recognizes the savagery in her own voice as she speaks. 

Maedhros quirks an eyebrow, a tired smile at the corner of his mouth. “We do not know for sure that you have the silmaril, princess. Certainly, no one has seen it. There is no point attacking someone who may not even have it.”

The warning in his voice is deadly clear. He knows, she thinks again. He knows she has it on her but he has no proof and if he does not ask then he can pretend she does not. She finds herself thinking, with a sick lurch of her stomach, of how carefully she’s kept the silmaril hidden from even her own people all these years. Wonders how fast the news would have reached the kinslayers of its presence if she had not.

“But,” she says slowly, feeling out every word, “if it were proven that the silmaril is not in Sirion, would you be willing to help protect us. I suppose it does not have to be an oath that you swear. I’m sure we could draw up an agreement of some sort.”

“And can you prove that, princess?” Maedhros asks.

She wonders if he realizes that he’s leaning towards her. She glances at Maglor and does not like how unnaturally still he’s gone as he stares at her. “Yes,” she says, watching him very carefully. “It is not in Sirion.”

His eyes narrow. He still does not ask. “And what would you offer us in return for protection. You must realize that to protect Sirion the way you seem to want we would have to relocate our own people. We would not be of much immediate use to you so far away. That is quite a lot to ask of us.”

“I—” she starts, stops. She does not know how to tell him that she will give him the simaril if he will agree if she cannot let him know that she has the silmaril. Yes, she is sure he knows. But it is unspoken and it needs to be spoken to be useful. But if she speaks it then she must hand it over or she will have signed not only her own death warrant but Eärendil’s as well.

It rather abruptly occurs to her, in a way which she has been trying to not let it, that if she turns the silmaril over then naneth and adar will have died for nothing. The twins will have been left in a forest to die for nothing. She has been trying so very hard to not acknowledge that. Trying so very hard to put her people who are alive first but now she’s let the thought in and she’s already backed herself into a corner.

Maedhros is still staring at her, worry beginning to creep onto his face the longer she goes without answering. She wonders if it is worry for her or worry for what he will do if she does not give him what he knows she has. She tries to get herself to say anything at all into the stifling silence and what ends up coming out is, “Why were my brothers murders so much crueler than everyone else's? They were only six. What could they have possibly done to earn the cruelest end?”

Maedhros flinches back, eyes closing. The golden ribbon is once again clenched between his fingers. “They should not have been left out in the woods,” he says softly and then falls quiet. He does not open his eyes.

“We did not take them out into the woods,” Maglor says and then scoffs derisively at himself presumably. “Not that our lack of involvement in this one evil makes it better. Celegorm, our brother, his followers came to the decision that an appropriate revenge for his death would be take your brothers into the forest and leave them there. By the time we found out it was too late.”

“I killed them for it,” Maedhros says, opening his eyes but refusing to meet hers. “What does it matter if I spill more blood? And they at least deserved it. I looked for your brothers as well but I could not find them.”

She does not think any of that makes it any better but it is the explanation she has always been lacking. It doesn’t make anything better but at least she isn’t left wondering any longer. “What would you have done? If you had found them?”

He finally meets her eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” she snaps. “It matters that you looked for them. It matters that you killed my people. It matters that you killed the ones who left them in the woods. This matters too. What would you have done if you had found them?”

“I would not have killed them,” he says, hesitates and looks down at the ribbon in his hands. “I would not have killed them. But I would probably have tried to ransom them for the silmaril if we had found where it was. If that didn’t work I suppose they just would have stayed with us indefinitely. I do not know.”

She closes her eyes. Tries to imagine a world where she arrived in Amon Ereb to find her brothers alive. Cannot imagine it. She opens her eyes and looks to Eärendil who has been quietly watching, ready to fight a doomed fight if it comes to it. He looks back, smiles softly at her. There is too much trust in that smile, it makes her stomach hurt. She finds herself again weighing the blood on the kinslayers hands but this time against their actions since she’s arrived at Amon Ereb. Tries to reconcile the kinslayers who murdered her parents with the elf who is being so careful to talk around the silmaril they all know she has, who had apparently looked for her brothers and tried to save them. It makes none of it better, the scales are still weighed down by blood.

But what makes a monster? She looks to Maglor and finds him watching his brother with a concerned crease between his eyebrows. The ribbon, she thinks, is more than just a ribbon. Do monsters care about their brothers? Do monsters look for children in the woods when it would be much easier to just give them up as already dead?

“Do you regret it?” This is important she knows.

Maglor answers first, the words seeming almost torn from him, as if he’s been waiting this whole time for her to ask. “Princess, words cannot describe my regret.”

“But you would do it again?” Eärendil asks. “Does your regret matter if you’d do it all again?”

“Yes,” Maglor says with a sigh. “I’d do it again and I’d regret that too.”

“Maedhros?” she asks when he does not answer. She feels than she can see the regret lingering in the air around him. Is not sure she even needed to ask the question.

“I regret it. Of course I regret it, princess. But again, I ask, does it matter when it is already done?” he looks very tired when he meets her eyes.

What makes a monster? She doesn’t know. But she does not think the two elves across from her are monsters. Not the kind that lurk in the dark waiting to kill simply because they enjoy the sight of blood. She thinks, that if they were monsters, they would have killed her the minute they suspected she had the simaril on her.

“Please don’t make me regret this,” she says quietly. Maedhros sits up very straight in what might be alarm. Maglor’s eyes go very wide. Her heart is beating very fast but she tugs the pouch free from the waistband of her skirt. She pulls the whole pouch off of her belt and tosses it on the table between them.

It takes what feels like an age before Maglor carefully reaches out and tugs the bag open. The light pours out even before he tips the bag over and lets the silmaril tumble onto the table. He does not touch it. Maedhros is staring at it with an almost hateful look but he still releases the ribbon and reaches out to carefully place his hand against it. Light streams out from between his fingers and he laughs. It is not a nice laugh.

“If I could break this thrice damned thing I would,” he says, voice thrumming with a fury she does not think she could even hope to match.

“Russo,” Maglor says and when she looks at him he has tears dripping down his face. “I—” He does not get to finish the sentence before the doors to the room are slamming open, the twins near falling through them.

“Maedhros,” one of them gasps, “Maedhros what—” his eyes catch on her first, panicked and scared, and then on the light streaming between Maedhros’s fingers. “Oh.” He sits down on the floor and his twin goes down with him.

“How did you know?” Eärendil asks curiously.

“I could feel it,” one says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Like a great chain loosening from around my chest. I thought…” He does not say what he thought, but she knows.

Maedhros moves his hand and once again twists the ribbon around his fingers. For a long moment they all simply sit in silence staring at the light.

“Well,” Eärendil says, awkward and trying to not be. “Since that is mostly settled, in a way, would I be able to get both a bath and a bed? In that order preferably.”

“I will second that question,” she says, wanting more than she can say to simply sit in a bath in silence.

Maglor bursts into laughter. It’s lighter than his brother’s, perhaps a bit hysterical, but genuine. “My dears, you can have whatever you wish. I’ll go see about getting some baths drawn. I’ll be back.”

Maedhros puts the silmaril back into the pouch and then with barely any thought tosses it to one of the twins who catches it with a strangled gasp. “Do something with it. I don’t want to see it again. Just don’t lose it.” The twins nod and grin brightly at her before leaving. “Honestly, if I thought the oath would let us, I’d just gift it back to you. But that seems like an unnecessary risk to you.” He says it so conversationally and she thinks it almost makes it worse how little he seems to want it outside of the oath.

“I just want my people protected,” she says instead of any of that. Her heart is still beating a shade too fast and she wants to be done with this.

He nods. “We’ll speak on the details tomorrow, after we’ve all rested. But princess,” he waits for her to meet his eyes and looks deadly serious when he says, “we owe you more than we could ever repay. For the killing of your kin and making you into a refugee to begin with. For bringing the silmaril to us at risk to yourself. I am sorry for the pain we have dealt you and until my oath drags me away I will do what I can to help you.”

Her chest grows tighter and tighter with every word he says and she doesn’t know why but he finishes speaking and she has to put her face in her hands as she starts crying.

☀︎

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