The Fall Of Doriath by gamil-zirak

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Amon Ereb

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AMON EREB

THE FALL OF DORIATH

MINYON is Noldorin for "first-begotten" or "first-born".
TORON is Noldorin for "brother".

Chapter Five...
"AMON EREB"

The lone hill of Amon Ereb looked far across the southern planes of East Beleriand; a lone sentinel thrust aside from the Andram (The Long Wall) that divided all north Beleriand from the south. That hill had a long history in Beleriand's ancient tale. It was upon its easy slopes and wide summit that Denethor, lord of the Nandor of Ossiriand and all his closest kin were slain in the first of Beleriand's major battles. Following the coming of the Noldor, it became a hill of watchfulness during the long siege; held by Amrod who with his people dwelt in the woods hard by. After the Dagor Bragollach, Caranthir had fled south from Thargelion to join his brother and had further fortified that hill into a place of some strength. Yet after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, all the sons of Feanor now dwelt in the lands about Amon Ereb and the great vale of the mighty Gelion that lay to the east of the hill. Maedhros, the eldest, now dwelt there and built upon the summit a fortress that was but an echo of his great citadel upon the hill of Himring. Still, it was a place of strength where most of the remaining valour of Feanor's people was held.

About Amon Ereb's gentle slopes that looked northward and eastward were many clusters of fair housings with white walls, golden thatched roofing and here and there, small terraced gardens. Yet there were no sprouting fountains or roadside rivulets or sparkling pools that were the delight of the Eldar in their dwelling places, for water was scarce upon the hill and the few wells were rather on the eastern slopes that looked towards the river.
On the slopes looking westward were ringing smithies and armouries with great stores of weapons for the perilous times. Those slopes also housed the stables for their beloved steeds whose ancient sires were brought to Middle-earth from Valinor. These however were now grievously few as many had perished in the wars fought and so were cherished all the more, as their like were dwindling in the mortal lands through breeding with the lesser horses of Beleriand.
The slopes that looked south were sparsely housed with storehouses and a few barracks built for the soldiery of Feanor's sons and their knights.

Upon the hill's summit that stood a thousand feet above the surrounding plain, sat the main fortress of Maedhros.
Tall walls rose from the peak as rectangular blocks that stood side by side, some wider, some taller. Others were built at the summit's very edge while some were built a little inwards, their walls shadowed between their out-thrust neighbours. Others had lofty arched windows peering from their rectangular masses and some had high balconies that looked to the rising sun. The wall's ledges were sheltered by overhanging parapets, pierced by clefts through which archers could shoot, and one looking up could see the elves of the fortress guard upon the high walkways with their spear shafts glinting in the sun.

A broad road led up the hill and passed through the widest wall that looked north through a great arch, whose entrance was closed by a mighty gate that was heavily guarded. Behind it was a dark tunnel that was lit by flaming torches, hung at intervals on the walls. Beyond lay a wide courtyard of soft green grass, bordered by a paved path. Flanking the courtyard was an arcaded walk with doors upon its inner walls that opened to winding passages, stone cut chambers and spiralling stairways that led to the higher floors of the fortress.
At the eastern end of the courtyard was another arch that led under a further tunnel to a lesser courtyard. Surrounding it's greensward was a small path that was framed with many wooden benches and stone carved seats. At the centre of that peaceful place was a single oblong block, about five feet high, upon which was laid a great slab of black stone.

Upon the slab was graven in Daeron's Runes:
"Here fell Denethor son of Lenwe
Lord of the Nandor of Ossiriand
Long may he and the many brave knights of his house who fell beside him be remembered.
May they sleep in peace."

There was a flight of steps of hewn stone that led up from this inner courtyard to the outer walkway of the second level of the fortress. The landing opened to a wide balcony that looked northwards. An arched doorway led away back into the fortress where the quarters, chambers and halls of the princes and other elite of the Feanorrim stood. Narrow stairways led upwards from this level to high turrets, through whose windows peered watchful eyes. Thus stood the fortress of Maedhros upon Amon Ereb in the days after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

So it was that Maedhros, the eldest son of Feanor now gazed northward from his topmost turret as he had done for many days now since his brothers Celegorm and Curufin had gone.
His commanding frame stood taller than all his people, with strong yet supple limbs and a mane of russet-red hair falling in a pliant tumble of gentle waves and loose curls even to his waist. His face was very fair, yet tempered with a wisdom that gave him a somewhat solemn expression. Upon his brow was a circlet of copper that glinted with gold in the morning light. He was the perfect blend of beauty, strength and regal nobility of the house of Finwe, coupled with the patient wisdom and understanding of Nerdanel his mother. Verily was he named Maitimo (the Well Formed One).

Now he looked northward to the rolling plains of East Beleriand; his eyes scouring the road that faded into the distant haze as it ran on to meet the dwarf road near Sarn Athrad. Upon the horizon began far woodlands and forests where hunting was ripe and the lands were fair.
To the west he could see afar the low hills of the Ramdal (the walls end). The hills continued on into the hazy distance, their southerly slopes growing ever steeper until they became the sheer cliff wall of the Andram that would reach the very gorge of Nargothrond some three hundred miles away.
Eastward stood the vale of the river Gelion. Featureless grassy plains spread wide all about Amon Ereb, yet about the river could be descried the dark green of lush woodlands. A pale ribbon of Gelion's waters could only just be seen, peeping through the far greenery or meandering into view through the folds of the land as it flowed on southward. There was another river whose inflow into the Gelion was half veiled to Maedhros' elven sight. That was the river Legolin, flowing down from the Ered luin whose towering peaks were as a blue outline against the morning sky.

Maedhros turned to the north again, hoping to catch sight of his returning brothers. When news had come to him that the Silmaril was now in the hands of Dior, it was clear the time for holding back their Oath was at an end.
He remembered how he and his brothers had journeyed to Dor Firn-i-Guinar with a mind to retrieve the Silmaril from Beren and Luthien. There they had beheld from across the river Adurant, Luthien in all her glory as she sang and danced upon the northern shores of Tol Galen. She wore the jewel at that time and even as they had neared that land, they had all felt and seen the rumour of its power that had brought about a wondrous change to the lay of the country. Never had they seen or hoped to see in Middle-earth a land so fruitful, so fair and so filled with light. It were as though they had stepped into a land touched by the very sight of Teleperion and Laurelin in their ancient youth of growth. It were as if they had passed through an invisible barrier, into a country somehow graced with the potent well-being of Aman itself. Dor Firn-i-Guinar was then a blessed realm in mortal lands, upheld by the smile of Iluvatar and protected by the gentle caress of his unfathomable thought.

All six of them had stood silent, mesmerised into inaction by the flame of Luthien's beauty, the enchantments of her song and the blessed light of the Silmaril. All thoughts of their stern purpose faded from memory as the doom of their Oath and it's dark curse lost all power.
Later, the brothers would admit to each other that it seemed they were returned to Valinor, as the forests of Dor Firn-i-Guinar in that hour were akin to the gardens of Lorien, whose beauty is silent to the page, being too great for the pen of tale. Luthien's song was like that of the nightingales that sung in the willow gardens of Aman, that set their sweet voices like musical rain upon the heads of those who would heed their melody. The waters of the Adurant sparkled dreamily with hues of silver and gold, like the enchanting tree-shadowed lake of Lorellin, whose glistening waters were laced with the restful powers of contentment and peace. And Tol Galen's beauty was like that of the shimmering isle in the midst of the swan lake, where slept Este, the healer of hurts and weariness.

They could not tell how long they had stood by the northern shores of Adurant, helplessly disarmed of all grim intent as they lay furtively hidden behind the bright vegetation that bent over the swirling waters of the river.
It was Caranthir who had finally stirred out of his gaze and turned to his brothers. "Do as you will," he said, waving his hands and shaking his head, "but I will not set foot upon that isle, nor wrest the Silmaril from that fair maiden. She has bewitched my sight as well as my heart, so that my eyes see too clearly the blissful land from whence I came, and my heart is in anguish because of my Oath and mourns for the release and return to the ease of my former life in the Blessed Realm! Such enchantment is too perilous for me to face, as it may break me and my purpose!

Therefore, let the daughter of Thingol keep the jewel for now. If the rumours be true, we shall not wait long as she is now even as her mortal lover, and therefore doomed to die a second death. Only after her passing shall I be of mind to pursue our father's jewel!"
So said Caranthir, whose words had not surprised his brothers as they all had felt the same strange overwhelming feeling. So they wordlessly retreated and returned to their wandering. Thereafter they seldom spoke again of the incident and their people did not question them upon seeing their silent return.

But now Beren and Luthien were gone and the Silmaril was given to their son Dior, who had taken up the kingship of Doriath. How would Dior react to their request? Surely Dior was wise and noble as his very lineage depicted, yet Maedhros was not sure that all would go as was to be hoped. He now felt he had already made his first mistake by permitting Celegorm and Curufin to go with their message. He had thought it better to send Maglor and Amrod who were easier of temperament, and could deal more wisely with the Sindar. Yet it was Celegorm who had first brought tidings of the Silmaril's whereabouts and such was the vehemence of his desire to go, that Maedhros was loath to gainsay him. With Celegorm would go Curufin, as those two were hardly to be separated in such an endeavour, but Maedhros had given both stern warnings to check their fiery tempers, and treat respectfully those of the Sindar that they met.

Long had he sat in his chamber as the days went by, pondering upon all the perceived outcomes of the matter. If the Silmaril were yielded, all would go well with their plans for renewing their power. The regained jewel would gainsay the grim prophecy of the Valar, and prove that their coming to Middle-earth was not in vain. But if he and his brothers were refused...
Maedhros was loath to dwell on that side of it, for his wise inner heart spoke with foreboding to his mind. Ever since word came to him of the Silmaril's return to Doriath, he had been haunted by troubling dreams and visions of starlit Alqualonde and the evil battle he had fought there. He thought of how he had raised his sword against the Teleri of Aman.

He could not forget the ghastly sight of the slain, strewn about the lamp-lit quays, or lying lifeless upon the decks of their swan ships. Remorse for those terrible deeds had never left his heart, and there were times he silently regretted the eagerness with which he had leapt to his father's side to utter the Oath that now bound him to its grim decrees. But even so, there was another part of him that spoke to his heart. A side that had inherited Feanor's inner fire. A side that nevertheless drove him against his wisdom to fell deeds for the honour of his father and his House. He was the eldest son of Feanor who had named him Nelyafinwe in fatherly pride, The Third Finwe! He would not fail his father or his people. He could not!

There was a soft knock at the door. "Come!" said Maedhros.
In came an elf who was smaller in stature than most, with a young fair face and reddish hair that was somewhat shorter than the norm among elves. Maedhros turned back to the northern view, hardly taking note of the newcomer as he came and sat next to him.
There was a moment of silence before the elf spoke. "Do you look to the north with anticipation or with foreboding?"
Maedhros turned to him. "What do you mean by foreboding. What would I fear from Tyelcormo and Curufinwe's return? They will not fail in delivering our message to Dior, and I deem they shall be answered. I cannot guess as to whether Dior shall say either yea or nay, yet I shall act upon his answer in accordance to whatever my own counsel dictates in the matter. I fear or anticipate nothing, but await only to either receive that which we have requested, or confront he who would withhold what is ours!"

The elf looked long at Maedhros then finally sighed. "I hear you minyon," he said. "Ever have we looked to you for guidance, and followed your command since father's death, and you have never failed us, or him. Yet there are times when I would say what is in my heart Russandol, even as Macalaure would sing of what is in his!"
Maedhros looked at the elf with curiosity. "What is this you would now say to me Ambarussa?"
Amrod turned his gaze to the window, staring listlessly at the lofty view. "I never forgave him," he said after a long pause. He turned back to his brother. "Father I mean. I never forgave him for Ambarussa's death."

Maedhros shifted a little in his chair and wondered what had brought on this grave talk from his brother. "Father did not mean for Ambarto to die, that you know only too well. Our brother's untimely death was a tragedy to us all, yet the grief of it lay most heavily upon him. Do you not remember father's mood thereafter? Something of himself was lost after that terrible mistake, and all the more did he embrace the fey fires of his spirit that urged him on to an end unlooked for in those early days of our life in Middle-earth."

"Still," said Amrod, "were it not for his ready hatred for the children of Indis! His disdain even for those who did not turn back from the long hard road, but followed him wholly into exile! Were it not for that would my twin brother still be living. Father would not have commanded us to burn the ships to deny Nolofinwe and his people passage over the sea, and in so doing, murder his own son who lay hidden within, opting for the courageous wisdom to return home! Ambarussa would have stowed away safely upon that ship and returned to Aman to repent of our dark deeds. And though great Belegaer and the enchantments of the Valar would sunder us apart, gladly would I know that he yet lived in peace with our beloved mother in fair Tirion, our long home!"

Maedhros sighed. His thoughts reluctantly hearkened back to that dreadful hour when the Feanorrim had destroyed the ships of the Teleri, and so realised their grave mistake in burning one of their own princes who had thought at the last to repent of his rash deeds. Maedhros himself had taken no part in that terrible act, holding his own in defiance against the wrath of his father. The bonds of an ancient friendship were mercifully stronger to him that day than the daunting commands of Feanor. Yet he felt in part as guilty as his brothers and the rest of their people, who all had the blood of Amras on their hands. Still, the grief of loss would be worst on the sibling who remained, as the bonds of twin births were stronger than was otherwise. So did Maedhros understand well his brother's apparent pain and heartache.

Amrod seemed now to speak softly to himself. "Dearest Ambarussa, my twin in body, mind and heart! Where are you now beloved brother?! Do the halls of Mandos still hold your fallen spirit, or are you returned from your time of waiting and dwell now in peace in the Blessed Realm! Truly did our wise mother name you Umbarto, in the long years before our fell deeds for the Silmarils. For fated you were! How foresighted was she!"

Suddenly he stood and began pacing the narrow floor in apparent agitation. "Since word came to us of the Silmaril's return to Doriath, I have had disturbing dreams of a past I would sooner forget! The battle with the Teleri at Alqualonde! Mandos in Araman declaring the doom of our people to us! The burning of the swan ships at the Firth of Drengist, and the death of Ambarussa thererin! But that which most haunts my sleep is my declaration of the Oath beneath the fiery lamplight in Tirion! Those uttered words that began all the madness that followed. Words that led to the death of my brother and father! Words that still hound us on unrelentingly to where we are, here and now, upon the brink of fell deeds that would further serve to haunt me!"

He stopped then, as if suddenly realising what he was saying in his ranting. He slowly turned to his brother who looked at him with sad eyes.
"Forgive me Russandol," said Amrod quietly. "Believe me when I say I will not shy away from fighting for my birthright if Dior refuses us! I am a son of Feanaro, bound by a grave Oath and constrained by my father's dying wish! Yet I would ask to be allowed a little despair for future deeds that may lead to more elf blood tainting my hands." He fell silent and stood with his head bowed.

'So Ambarussa suffers too from the troubling dreams,' thought Maedhros. It was disconcerting as it foreboded a darkness to come for the brothers. Perhaps their dreams portended deeds akin to those evils done in the far past. A heavy weight descended upon Maedhros as he thought of these things, and the grim words of Mandos echoed in his heart.
"On the house of Feanaro the wrath of the Valar lies from the West to the uttermost East. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well!"
TAKEN FROM THE SILMARILLION; CHAPTER 9 "OF THE FLIGHT OF THE NOLDOR"

'Yet what are we to do?' he asked himself.
'We hope against hope and continue on unto the bitter end if needs be!' came his mind's grim reply.
'To the bitter end!' he whispered aloud.
"What was that?" asked Amrod, turning to him with questioning eyes.
"What would you have me say Ambarussa?" said Maedhros, pitying his brother's anguish while masking his own.
Amrod slowly retook his seat. "I would have you say nothing minyon," he said with a sigh. "I say only what is in my heart of hearts. A remorse, a regret and a sadness that all needed airing. Yet I would share my heart's sorrows with you who are wisest, and I would have you listen to my lament, ere it fades from my heart to be replaced by the fires of vengeance inherited from Feanaro my father!" He sighed again and bowed his head.

There was a firm knock at the door. "Come," said Maedhros.
Andomahtar, Maedhros' doorwarden now entered. "My lord," he said. "Riders have been sighted to the far north!"
Swiftly, Maedhros rose from his seat and went to the window. There in the distance were black specks upon the far road. He turned and gave a nod, and his doorwarden bowed and left them, closing the door softly behind him.
Maedhros then turned to Amrod who now stood beside him staring into the distance.

"I would have you know something that may be of some small comfort," he said. "I too suffer from troubling dreams and visions of a past I would sooner forget!"
Amrod turned to him in surprise. "Indeed!" said Maedhros. "The burden of sorrow and guilt lies not in you alone Ambarussa but in all your brothers. Some of us may bear our dismay the better, yet do not doubt that the anguish of it is in all our hearts. Therefore do not feel as one who is alone in this, doubting your allegiance to your brothers and your House. Know that I, Nelyafinwe, do not doubt you in the least!"

He looked back to the approaching riders and could now discern their number. They were twelve in all and he knew that Celegorm and Curufin were indeed returned.
"But know this Ambarussa," he continued, laying his good hand reassuringly upon Amrod's shoulder. "Our brothers are returned and stern counsels may soon be taken that may lead us to fell deeds. Yet for all we may rue in what is to betide hereafter, remember that we do all for the glory of the house of Feanaro and the fulfilment of our Oath! That is our true purpose in Middle-earth to which we must forever hold, in spite of ourselves!"

Amrod gazed at his elder brother. Always was Maedhros the solid rock to his siblings and his people. Wise in council, stern in command, fearless in war, gentle in affection, venerable as a king, humble as a friend, truly the greatest of Feanor's sons. Amrod as always, felt better for opening his heart to him. Maedhros gave him a nod of reassurance. After a moment Amrod returned it.

There came another knock on the door, followed by the entrance of an elf of imposing stature. He stood tall and was well built of torso and strong of limb. He was ruddy in complexion, with dark brown hair that was parted at the centre, and fell about his shoulders and the small of his neck. He had the faint rumour of a permanent scowl, though this coupled with his face's natural fairness gave him a strangely dark handsome look. Out of the shadow of his somewhat creased brow shone a piercing glance that was unfathomable to the minds eye. His nose was softly pointed and his full lips enhanced his strong masculine features. Thus stood Caranthir, the fourth son of Feanor.
"Tyelcormo and Curufinwe are returned," he said. "Should we not go down and await them in the Council Chamber?"
"Indeed let us go," said Maedhros. "There shall be much to discuss when they arrive!"

They left the topmost turret and passed down a narrow spiralling stairway that opened to a wide corridor. They strode on, passing great windows that brightened the passage with the light of near noon. At its end was a wide flight of steps that declined to the right. A chamber furnished with a large wooden table of exquisitely carved oak with six chairs (two upon each side and one upon each end), was below them. There was a high window on the left wall from the steps that looked to the eastern parapet and the occasional guard that passed by on patrol. Upon the southern wall was spread a huge tapestry from end to end. At its centre was an octagon of eight triangles whose long tips all touched in the middle. Around them was a circle with eight triangular petals like a star. Yet there were four other petals upon the star's diagonals, and these were like red flames that touched an outer circle that surrounded the inner star. That was the insignia of their house. The Star of Feanor.

A door led out of the chamber on the west wall which the brothers ignored as they took to the chairs. Maedhros sat at the head of the table near the east wall, while the others took their seats at the western end, Caranthir to the left and Amrod to the right.
"Andomahtar!" called Maedhros. His doorwarden who stood by the west door, entered.
"Seek out Lord Canafinwe and bid him come to the council chamber!" Andomahtar bowed yet even as he turned to leave, an elf came to the door.
"There is no need!" he said as he entered and sat at the far end of the table, opposite Maedhros with his back to the door.
He was a tall yet nimble looking elf of fair skin. His face resembled somewhat that of Maedhros though his features were softer still, mirroring his easy temperament and soft mood. A golden circlet shone upon his brow and his raven-dark hair flowed down in smooth waves to rest upon his shoulders. Thus sat Maglor, the second son of Feanor.

"How far from the hill were Tyelcormo and Curufinwe when last you saw them?" asked Caranthir after a silent moment.
"Not very far," replied Maglor. "A few miles ride still lay ahead of them, but such was their haste that they would outpace the very north wind! They may very well be within the gates by now."
"Then perhaps the news they bring to us is good," said Amras, daring to hope. "Perhaps they hasten with the very Silmaril in their possession!"
Caranthir turned to him. "Or perhaps they hasten to a swift uprising as we have been denied!"
The remark had all heads turn to him and they noted with unease, the relish with which he had uttered it.
But Amrod was in no mood for misplaced jests. "You speak as though you wish it were so Carnistir!" he said sharply. Caranthir smiled.
"Peace Ambarussa!" said Maedhros. "There is no need for such guess work as we shall be well informed soon enough!"

There followed a long uncomfortable silence as the brothers sat eyeing each other, or bowed their heads in deep thought as each pondered upon the outcome of Celegorm and Curufin's errand. After what seemed like an age of waiting there came the sound of approaching voices from beyond the western door. It was opened and in came Celegorm and Curufin. The two brothers acknowledged the others with silent nods as they took their seats. So sat the six sons of Feanor from left to right: Maedhros the Tall at the table's head, Celegorm the Fair to his left, Caranthir the Dark, Maglor the Singer opposite Maedhros, Amrod the Twin and finally Curufin the Crafty to Maedhros' right.

"I welcome you Tyelcormo and Curufinwe!" Maedhros now declared. "You have both travelled far and swiftly too by what I witnessed from your hasty approach. Therefore we shall aim not to detain you long in council, as you both may be in need of refreshment and rest. I shall come straight to it! You are returned no doubt with Dior's word. What is the Lord of Doriath's answer to our request!?"
The two brothers looked at each other and sighed. Then bitter realisation came upon the others, who shook their heads in disappointment as they guessed the coming answer.

"We are refused minyon!" said Celegorm. "Dior still withholds the Silmaril and refuses to yield it to us. Thus we have ridden back with all haste to prepare for the inevitable consequence of his choice!"
A series of emotions passed over the brothers upon hearing Celegorm's words confirm what they had feared. Some were angry, scowling and cursing through gritted teeth as they let fall their clenched fists upon the table. Others stared listlessly, realising that the feared confrontation was now more or less inevitable. Yet Maglor would not let himself be ruled by raw emotion alone, and therefore sought to proceed with wariness.

"And what doom of consequence would that be?" he asked solemnly. He knew of his brothers moods and would quell their inevitable rashness. "Would you speak of a second kinslaying done in the pursuit of a Silmaril? I hope not, for there are other counsels to consider that are far less severe."
Celegorm stood with furrowed brow, a clenched jaw and bright eyes. "And what counsels would these be Macalaure?" he asked in a soft voice. "Would you further pardon Dior's conduct?"
"I did not say that Tyelcormo," Maglor calmly replied. "But we must proceed with all caution. Let us give ourselves time to reflect, allowing wisdom to guide us rather than the awry passions of our hearts."

"Awry passions of our hearts?!" cried Celegorm. "Nay! I beg to differ!" He straightened and began to declaim, as if he were making a speech long rehearsed.
"My brothers!" he said. "We have long waited in the wings for the Silmaril to be returned to us. Years ago we sent to that proud king of Doriath, who returned us nothing but scornful words. Now it is known that Curufinwe and I thereafter openly pledged death to Thingol. Yet we need not have vowed for the Silmaril itself did justice to our words. Thus was Thingol slain through consequences of his own making in his desire for the jewel. It was no doubt a fitting end to that defiant king! Yet the Silmaril was thereafter taken by Beren and Luthien! Though all here would agree that we could not take it from them while they yet lived under the protective hand of what could only be Iluvatar himself! Also, we would yet honour those twain awhile, since it were they who rescued the Silmaril from the Iron Crown. However, that Dior their son should now take it up and keep it for his own, disregarding both our Oath and claim, is a thing not to be borne any longer! We must prepare to march on Menegroth, and take by force if needs be, the jewel of our father!"

Silence fell upon the chamber as the brothers took in Celegorm's words. Caranthir sat with folded arms; his piercing eyes glinting at Curufin who looked grimly at Celegorm. Amrod turned his wide eyes to Maglor whose grave expression lay upon Maedhros, who stared down at the table.
Finally he spoke. "All that you have said rings true to us Tyelcormo. However, I would have you tell us of all that befell on your errand to Doriath. For instance, what were Dior's actual words in answer to our claim? Was his refusal so final as to leave no hope of even a parley perhaps, that might lead to peaceful debate in council? Come Tyelcormo, what did Dior say to us in this matter?"

Celegorm turned his eyes to Curufin who smiled faintly and slightly shook his head.
But Maedhros saw what passed between them. "Nay Curufinwe!" he said tersely. "Think not to weave your crafty webs here at council! Tyelcormo shall speak freely and truthfully in this, as all of us have the right to hear the full tale put before us ere we make any choice for war. You may not think it a grave thing to raise your sword in battle against others of the Eldar, yet it is not so with me!"

Curufin was taken aback and swiftly rose. "What crafty webs would you now accuse me of weaving Maitimo?!" he cried. "Too easily does that scornful term roll off the tongues of elves. Curufinwe the Crafty! That is my derisive title to many, yet for what reason am I called so? Am I to be blamed for inheriting our father's subtlety of mind, that would have me scorned by all who would fear my unravelling of their own deceitful thoughts. For think not that I am guilty of choosing to deceive any here. Nay! That my brothers is the province of the wise Lord of Doriath!"

He turned to Celegorm and waved him down to take his seat. "Pray let me tell the tale to our brothers Tyelcormo, so they might judge who truly deserves the title of crafty in this matter!"
Then Curufin proceeded to recount all that had occurred in their meetings with Haldir, and the words of Dior in answer to their claim. When he was done he added, "If any here find fault with our conduct, let him voice his complaint! But know that Dior's plea for more time to consider our claim is but a ruse to foil our purpose!"

It was apparent that not all the brothers were swayed by Curufin's tale, for some still shook their heads in doubt.
"Is this not a deception of your own imagining Curufinwe," said Amrod, "borne of your dislike and mistrust of the Sindar of Doriath? What if you are wrong in thinking so, and Dior does not lie but truly seeks to return our Silmaril in due time. Would not a rash move from us be unwise in this situation, and serve only to cause dissension between our peoples that need not occur if we would but have patience? Why not give Dior the benefit of the doubt, and await the coming Spring. If indeed we are still to receive no clear answer from him, well, I should be first in line to march to Doriath with war."
"I second that!" said Maglor in support. "You claim to have unravelled a hidden purpose, yet you cannot prove this to be true. Dior's messenger confessed to no such planned deceit, though you threatened him with raised sword. Perhaps you were too hasty in concluding so Curufinwe, being dismayed by Dior's answer, and misread matters in your anger."

"Misread matters!" retorted Curufin, irked by his brothers soft natures that would hinder at the worst of times when boldness of purpose was required. "What matters would I misread!? What would you say to me of the unravelling of hidden purposes and deceits. Speak of things you would know, and gainsay not what you little understand. The singing of songs and the strumming of the harp are for you Macalaure. Leave the subtle arts of the mind to me and take heed to what I say! Dior attempts to fool us!" He paused for effect. "And," he added with a directed sneer, "it seems to me that he has somewhat succeeded!"

All the brothers turned now to Curufin with disapproving looks. And even as he said these words he knew he had overreached himself and overly scorned his elder kinsman. He winced inwardly at his folly in letting his frustrations have the better of his hot temper, and speak ill of his noble brother.
But Maglor's temper flared in answer. "Do not seek to ridicule me in council Curufinwe!" he returned with a rare flash of his eyes. "For you are not as all seeing as you would deem. You are indeed subtle in mind. Yet beware that your dark wisdom in this matter shall lead you to a doom of the same hue. For I too have a gift of inner sight! Did you not know?!"

At that moment, Maedhros raised his hand. "Enough!" he cried. "There shall be no more arguments amongst ourselves or this council will be of no purpose! Neither shall any brother seek to belittle another in disagreement. All our differing views shall be heard and assessed here as everyone has the right to voice their opinion!"
Curufin turned to Maglor with downcast eyes. "Forgive me toron, for I overstepped my bounds and insulted you. My rash words were but the result of a long journey of bitter disappointment. Pray accept now the apology of a wayward younger brother to his most noble elder."

The apology was well meant, for the sons of Feanor harboured a great love and respect for each other. It were a thing Feanor had always been proud of as it were he who had instilled the sense of close brotherhood to his sons. Many viewed this as something he did to counter his own relationship with his half brothers that had failed. The flame of anger in Maglor's eyes dimmed, and his stern expression relaxed.
After a moment he gave a nod of his head. "I pardon you my brother. Let no grief come between us." Curufin then bowed low to Maglor and sat himself down.

Being satisfied with the proceedings, Maedhros continued. "Now as much as I would doubt Curufinwe's thoughts on this matter, I cannot bring myself to wholly ignore his notion. Fate has ever been against us when it comes to the Silmarils, and so it would seem even now. As much as I deem Dior to be wise, I cannot discount the enamouring power of the jewel that might seduce even the most noble to keep it for themselves. That lesson was taught to us by Thingol, to his eventual peril. Yet I am torn between these two counsels: To march in force to Menegroth and confront Dior with the threat of war; or for we brothers to up and ride to Menegroth to a parley, where we might peacefully debate the Silmaril's release. If truth be told I would say the second choice seems good to me at this time."

"And why would that be Maitimo?" asked Caranthir as he rose from his seat as one who is riled into speech. "Why would you continually choose to grovel and beg for the Silmaril... for our Silmaril! Have we not pleaded enough for it? Why do the three of you, Maitimo, Macalaure and Ambarussa, all seem to speak favourably for this Sindarin king? To readily excuse him of going against us, though it is plain he delays in a planned attempt to keep the jewel? Do you not remember our message?

We penned our warning, yet showed him honour by greatly humbling ourselves to understating our cause in courtesy! Such was the tone of our written word, that to construe it as pleading in earnest for our jewel would not be far off the mark! Did we not put aside all the pride of our mighty house to beg to that hybrid king of dark elves? Yet our courteous manner was in vain. Our devotion to his wisdom to yield the Silmaril came to naught. It is a lesson to be learnt my brothers! To soften our mood to any in this matter is to embolden them to further defy us! To put forward the hand of truce yields only the back-handed strike of disdain! Never again must we treat the Sindar of Doriath with peaceful intent! The pen yielded nothing to us. Therefore with swords shall we now stake our claim!"

Caranthir had said his piece, and both Celegorm and Curufin nodded their agreement, but Maglor shook his head and stood.
"I would now question how the three of you, Tyelcormo, Carnistir and Curufinwe, speak with such favourable ease for a war between elves. Doubt not the curse we brought upon ourselves in the kinslaying of old. Maitimo speaks truly of fate being ever against us when it comes to the Silmarils. How is it that we always choose to forget the words of Mandos spoken to us on the dark shores of Araman..."

Suddenly Celegorm rose from his seat, interrupting his brother. "Say no more Macalaure!" he cried in anger. "Speak not of the Valar who would have held us back, rendering us deedless in the fight against the great enemy! Those were words that sought to daunt us into a fearful return to their reprimand. Words for the cowardly such as faithless Arafinwe and his folk who turned back. But we were steadfast in our vow to avenge the death of Finwe our grandfather, and the rape of the Silmarils. Have you forgotten?!"

Now Celegorm softened his voice. "But your words trouble me Macalaure! Should I take it that you have repented of your Oath and laid aside your claim? Have you wilfully consigned yourself to the doomed fall into the everlasting dark that you called upon yourself if ever you were to rescind your vow?"
They both faced each other, their wills fencing through their bright eyes. Maglor seemed calm, and the glow of his gaze was steady as opposed to Celegorm whose stare was fell and piercing, flickering with domineering intent.

Yet that was where the power of the Oath lay in the princes. In their arrogance, their wilfulness, their overbearing desire for the Silmarils. As much as Maglor tried to fend off Celegorm's searching will, he found to his dismay that he was fighting a losing battle. The dark of the Oath lay in his heart too, and its hold over him could not long be denied. He began to waver as Celegorm's eyes smiled in blazing triumph.
"Act as aloof as you please Canafinwe," echoed the dark will that was the anguish of Maglor's heart. "Yet you too uttered the Oath and so doomed yourself to its influence and power. Now fulfil the errand you vowed to pursue and curse in vain!" Suddenly he faltered, withdrew his gaze and slowly sat down. He was beaten.

Then Celegorm passed his fiery gaze over the rest of his seated brothers. "I do not ask Macalaure alone but all of you! For it seems some have forgotten their words spoken in Tirion long ago. Have the years in Middle-earth softened your moods to meekness; unwilling to reclaim our birthright at the last!"
The brothers remained silent as Celegorm forced them to look within themselves and remember the explicit nature of the vow they took. He forced them to see that they could not hide or turn back from its fulfilment, no matter the cost or length of time it took to achieve. They may have sworn the Oath in a moment of rash madness, yet grievous deeds were afterwards done in its name.

Deeds of evil intent and evil result that could not be forgotten. Deeds that bound them ever closer to its fell doom. Neither regretful hindsight nor heartfelt repentance could turn them aside from their chosen path...their chosen fate.
It was too late! Upon realising this, some of the brothers grew fearful of the revelation and inwardly despaired, whilst others accepted it in bitterness of heart but were resolute to see their vow through to the very end. So it was with Celegorm. Remorse, regret and bitterness touched him little in that dark hour, for he was the mouth-piece of the Oath. Indeed the Curse of Mandos worked its will to the fullest that day through him, as he incited his brothers to rise up against the Sindar of Doriath.

Celegorm turned back now to Maglor, seeking to further overthrow his doubts. "Macalaure, we all know it is your wont to be soft of mood and patient. Yet you are wise of heart and that is not lost upon us. It were you who restrained us from haughty words in our message, in the hope that courtesy would be rewarded. And we all gave way, hoping that it would prove so. Yet see the result! Instead, our good will is used against us; our mercy is scorned and the Silmaril is withheld! We have attempted your way my brother, but now we must attempt another!"
Maglor looked up at him and seemed to say something, but he suddenly faltered and turned away, as if he were no longer sure of himself.

Celegorm then turned to Amrod. "And I see Ambarussa in disagreement too. My sorrowful brother who mourns still for Ambarto who was taken from us in that terrible tragedy."
Amrod looked at Celegorm with fearful surprise. "Yea!" said the third son of Feanor. "I know of your grief, for I have seen your tears and heard your lament at such times as you thought yourself to be alone! But know that we all mourn our brother's untimely death, and not a day goes by when his absence is not felt. Yet you who were his twin would feel that grief all the more. But you must understand that our brother died for the cause of the Silmarils.

For had we not been forced to pursue those jewels because of the work of thieving hands, Ambarto would not have taken that dark journey that led to his tragic end. It were the thieving hands of Morgoth then, but it is Dior whom we now pursue! Therefore honour Ambarto's memory by keeping to our purpose without ease or hesitation! Turn the clutch of your grief into the vehemence of undeterred will in the retrieval of that which he perished for. Ambarussa, let not Ambarto's death be in vain!"
Celegorm's words spoke to Amrod's heart, challenging his fears to surrender to the anger and hatefulness of the Oath. The words sought to coax his bitter guilt for his brother's death, and blame the Sindar, the usurpers of the jewel.

Celegorm turned to Maedhros now. "Maitimo, you are the eldest, and are our leader and our guide! Ever is your word final in all we do. Now I see that you would question Curufinwe's notion that Dior seeks to cheat us. Yet why would he still withhold the Silmaril if he truly means to give it up? What would it matter in giving it to us now than in the coming Spring? What does the long winter hold for him that his messenger would suggest against our return during that time? Perhaps he needs that delay so as to hide the jewel, or send it in secret to his Telerin kin who dwell upon the Isle of Balar. Or perhaps he plans to fortify Doriath, knowing full well that we would seek to enter his realm in the end and confront him. You may say that I still but make guesses as to Dior's mind, yet what do we have to lose by going to Doriath with a mind of taking our birthright forcefully?

Even if we were to march upon Menegroth, we need not fight if he would but yield the jewel at the last. It is the Silmaril we all want, not a war! Yet it is perilous to go with small strength to a parley, for if Dior lies to us, we may be taken or slain. Maitimo... Dior is not to be trusted!"
His words were aimed at the inner fire that Maedhros had inherited from his father. It burned now in his breast, coaxing a dark purpose of fell deeds that would disguise itself as a noble aim to attain glory for the house of Feanor. It seemed to him that his former wisdom were now folly, and what he had deemed as rash was now the right course to take. Seeking a parley with Dior seemed tedious and overly generous, as it were Dior who should seek an audience with him to explain his keeping of the Silmaril. Yet Maedhros attempted to fight these new irrational thoughts that were conjured in his mind. He tried to quell their rising power over him. He was failing...

Celegorm then turned to them all, his proclamations becoming evermore fiercer. "Therefore we all must be of one mind to uphold our Oath of old! For that is what drives us and protects us! We who have survived the perils of war that have nigh slain all the other Noldorin princes! But here we are, unscathed, for this very moment and poised upon the threshold of deeds that shall see our father's jewel brought back to his house, and bring about a new beginning for the Feanorrim in Beleriand!"
He drew his sword from its sheath and it rang shrill, flashing with a cold fire. Tyelcarusse was its name in the Noldorin tongue. Swift Blade for a swift arm that was made for him by Feanor his father. The orcs knew of that sword and feared it greatly, yet it would soon become a name of dread to the Sindar.
"Therefore rise my brothers!" he cried. "Rise and draw your swords as we did long ago in Tirion!"

Now as Celegorm declared these things to them, the potent power of his speech continued to stoke the fires in their hearts, and the Oath that had long slumbered within them was awakened to wrath. Yet as much as it were a grief to some, it took hold on all, inflaming that ancient passion that had incensed them to leave Aman and go to war in Middle-earth.
And as Feanor had bequeathed to each of his sons a part of his own mood, so did the Curse of Mandos stir those very traits that lay in them to evil, and so consigned them to the dark will of their Oath.

For Caranthir the Curse awoke the anger and hatred that were inherent in him, driving his will to support the Oath's evil purpose. Besides Celegorm, he least fought against the desire for war against Doriath, as such was his wont to lean towards rash violence against any who would oppose him.

For Curufin the Curse awoke the arrogance, the sly cunning and ready disdain that were in his character. His will adhered well to the evil of the Oath, as he was after all, truly the son of his father.

The Curse stirred the will of the Oath in Maedhros, inflaming his desires for the rights of his house. It played upon his fears of failing his father in avenging the rape of the Silmarils and his death. Visions of dread were now conjured in his mind's eye. A wraith he saw before him, flaming in form and terrible to behold. It repeated the words spoken by Feanor upon his death, and rebuked him for his reluctance to fiercely pursue the usurpers of his father's legacy to his sons.

In Amrod too did the Curse stir the Oath, causing a darkness to blind his sight. In the conjured night, it seemed he could hear the faint voice of Amras, lamenting his twin brother's failure to recover that which he burned for. Amrod's passions were then stirred and the guilt, fear and despair that he felt were turned to anger, to hate and to vengeance.

In Maglor, the Curse battled the most, for he willed his wise heart to fight back. Yet he fought in vain as the Oath lay in him too, and it soon consumed his resilient will. It played upon his seeming weaknesses that were in truth his strengths. Feelings were conjured that had him view his patient approach to have been foolish, and that Dior and his people now laughed at his back, mocking his courteously worded message in contempt. His softer nature was not an asset but a hindrance, portraying him as a cowardly weakling prince in a house of glorious lords. His doubt lent itself to anger at ridicule, and the words of Curufin to him in council rang mockingly in his ears.

But for Celegorm the Curse and Oath were one with his pride, his strong self will and his ambition. This was his moment, his time to take the lead and do his part to guide his brothers to victory. He would redress the ancient wrongs done to his house. Redress the loss of pride in the house of Feanor and who knows, perhaps even regain the kingship over the Noldor! Yet however it would turn out, the retrieval of the Silmaril would be the first step to glory.

Thus were the princes brought low by their inherited traits of Feanor, their father. For by his deeds in life, had he cursed himself and his family. And the anguish of the Oath that his sons felt in their heart of hearts was almost unbearable in that dark hour. Yet Celegorm set aside all feelings that would hinder him, for he only looked forward to the goal; to the mighty achievement; to the great prize.

"Rise! Rise to drawn swords!" he cried, inciting his brothers to fully embrace the doom of the Oath.

Curufin and Caranthir were now stood with swords drawn, and they took up Celegorm's chant! The room seemed to darken, as though a shadow descended upon the chamber, dimming the light of the sun that shone through the high window. The bright lamplight on the walls seemed to slowly fade into a burning hue of red as the chanting became harsher. Visions came to the eyes of all the brothers: the Oath-taking in Tirion, the kinslaying, the burning of the swan ships. But the dread conjuring's no longer dismayed, but now served to strengthen the dark resolve of the Oath that was in them.

Anger!

"Rise! Rise to drawn swords!"

Hatred!

"Rise! Rise to drawn swords!"

Vengeance!

"Rise! Rise to drawn swords!"

The three seated brothers finally gave in wholly to the shadow of the Oath, and slowly rose as one and drew their weapons. The chanting ceased and they all held their sword tips together over the table, their blades a dull shining red in the blood-light.
Then Celegorm spoke with triumphant menace in his eyes.
"See here Feanaro our father! See here Ambarto our brother! Bear witness now in death as you did in life! Bear witness to our Oath ere we go to claim a Silmaril!"
Then there, in the council chamber upon the hill of Amon Ereb, did the sons of Feanor retake their Oath of old.

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanaro, and Fëanaro's kin,
whosoever hides or hoards, or in hand takes,
or finding keeps or afar casts a Silmaril.

This swear we all:
Death we will deal him ere days ending,
woe unto worlds end!
Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather!
To the everlasting darkness, doom us if our deed fails.
On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"

The lamp lights were suddenly blown out, though no wind or breeze entered that place.

---

Author's Commentary:

I suppose the reader has realised that I have six sons of Feanor rather than seven. Well I'm using the version that has Amras perish in the burning of the swan ships, as is described in the Peoples of Middle-earth volume. I'm using the Silmarillion's version as the solid background for this story but modifying things as I see fit by using certain revisions that Tolkien touched on in his ever developing works. I feel that having Amras die at the command of his own father and at the hand of his people gives the whole Silmaril saga a far more poignant feel. It also gives one the chance of exploring Amrod's feelings about his twins grievous death.
So we begin with Maedhros waiting for his brothers return. Amrod enters and they talk for a while. Once again, dreams play their part as the brothers have been having nightmares about their past evil deeds. The dreams are an omen as to the future when they shall repeat those grim acts. Amrod is filled with guilt and longing for his lost twin and he confides in Maedhros about it. Maedhros tries to soothe his brother as best he can though he has his own anguish to deal with.

Celegorm and Curufin return and they immediately have a council.
Naturally the three C's (Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin) who are the darker brothers, support the notion for war while the lighter brothers (Maedhros, Maglor and Amrod), are against such drastic action. However in following the canon of the Silmarillion, it was Celegorm who roused his brothers to war, so he must be the main antagonist to his lighter brothers easy reasoning. Maglor tries to quell their passions but does so in vain because he is also bound by the Oath.
My main aim for this council was to show how it's in total opposition to the Council of Dior. In that meeting, the tone is brighter and the power that prevails is that of light and goodness, being the Silmaril. The sons of Feanor's council is of anger, fear and hatred and the power that prevails is that of darkness and evil, being the Curse of Mandos.

Wisdom enlightens the lords of Doriath, hatred drives the sons of Feanor.
The lords of Doriath see visions of glory, hope and paradise itself while the sons of Feanor see dark and fearful conjuring's.
The two councils are in complete opposition with each other as the power of good dominates the first, while the power of darkness dominates the second.
However, I have never viewed the sons of Feanor as being evil. They were high princes of a mighty kindred of elves, The Noldor. They have taken upon themselves a darkness that should not be. They show bitterness, anguish, regret and remorse, yet are spurned on by fate. It's the most grievous tale in all the histories of Middle-earth, the marring of Feanor and his sons.
I therefore am trying to show the two sides of the coin in this story and not just portray the so called bad elves as just bad elves. There is conflict within them as they are not inherently evil elves but fallen elves of light.
In the end they retake their Oath and seal their fate as well as that of Doriath. I felt they would have retaken their vow so as to reinforce their decisions and strengthen their resolve.

Anyway, more in the next chapter!