A Long Time Falling by Himring

The Fall of the Havens of Sirion

I

‘She thinks what?!’

‘She thinks the Silmaril is lucky.’

‘The thing has cost her great-grandfather, her father and her mother their lives and probably shortened the life of her grandmother as well—and Elwing thinks it’s lucky?!’

‘Apparently she does. She thinks it has helped the Havens of Sirion to flourish.’

‘Silmarils aren’t lucky. There are no flourishing places in Beleriand.  Shall we go and prove it to Elwing?’

‘Is that really what you want to do, Maitimo?’

‘I don’t know... There’s such a din in my head; sometimes I feel could murder for a bit of peace and quiet. Most days I’ve got Melkor shouting in my left ear and Atar in my right. I can’t always tell them apart, and that hurts worst of all. And all the rest of them—Tyelkormo, Carnistir... When Ambarussa stand in front of me and say that Atar and Tyelkormo and Curufinwe and Carnistir would have wished it, I almost find myself nodding. It seems they would have...’

‘They want our brothers not to have died in vain, but...’

‘But they will have died in vain, even if we go to Sirion and get the Silmaril. I don’t know; it’s all so very pointless that chasing around the countryside after a bit of sparkle on an accursed chain whose chief property seems to be to shout Attack me in all the languages of Arda—is beginning to make a weird kind of sense. It’s almost enough to make one wish that Moringotto would finally deign to make his move and put us out of our misery... Except I’m sure he’s having too much fun. Macalaure, remind me why I do not wish to attack Sirion. Keep reminding me.’

‘We’ve only sent a single messenger so far, you know. We could send another one...’

‘You think we can badger Elwing into giving up the Silmaril? Brilliant! It won’t work, of course—those things have a consistent history of bloody-minded stubbornness associated with them; otherwise we wouldn’t be here... But it’s a great idea anyway. Let’s pester Elwing. At least, it will get Ambarussa off my back for a while.’

Maitimo sits down at his desk and begins to draft another letter to Elwing. After a while, he frowns and looks up at me.  ‘Macalaure? Atar’s flair for the dramatic... Has it ever struck you that, after all this, the Outer Darkness might be quite a nice place to find oneself? Silent, tranquil...’

He goes on scribbling. Then he looks up again. ‘Do you remember our conversation about orcs, in Mithrim? Sometimes when I look at my hand now, I think I can see the claws within.’

‘Maitimo, you are hurting so much...’

‘Who ever said turning into an orc wasn’t painful?’

II

‘This kin-slaying business is getting easier, don’t you find? A little bit of practice always helps.’

‘Easier...  Maitimo, you’ve hardly eaten for weeks. You’re eyes are so dilated that I’m surprised you can see me. Your skin is grey, and your lips are turning blue.’

‘I’m sorry, Macalaure.’

‘Never mind, Maitimo. But do me a favour? Stop smiling. It scares people. Including myself.’

III

Our own people turned against us at Sirion. They say it was because of the moral disgust they felt at our attacking the refugees of the three fallen cities, and I’m sure it’s true. Of course, a lot of the people at Sirion were Noldor, people they’d once known in Hithlum before the establishment of Gondolin and Nargothrond, not Sindar of Doriath, that reclusive people hardly anyone of them had ever seen.

But there was also the fact that Maitimo during the time between the attack on Doriath and the attack on Sirion gradually gave up the pretence that he was completely in control of things. Before Doriath, however desperate, he had always contrived to give the impression in public that he knew perfectly what he was doing. Afterwards, having put such an extraordinary amount of effort into maintaining that impression, he hardly seemed to notice or care that it was fading, but wore it like an increasingly tattered mantle, until it dropped and slipped away, unmourned. He put very little effort into convincing our people that in invading Sirion we were doing the right thing or even that we would win.

Those who followed us after the sacking of Sirion—so few and yet still more than I would have expected—were, I guess, the ones who had always been the less deceived and did not believe there were any successes waiting for us around the corner. They knew they were following someone battered and broken—and followed us anyway: the two last sons of Feanor.