The Life and Times of Maedhros by MaedhrosFeanorian

Age of the Trees, 1495

I write this with a heart of dark flame.  Melkor the accursed returned today, and nothing but darkness and sorrow followed in his wake.  Atar has named him Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World.  He killed haru Finwë and took the Silmarils, greatest of Atar’s creations.  He brought a monster who killed the two trees and provided him with a cloak of darkness even the Valar could not penetrate.  I begin to think Atar is right.  If the Valar cannot protect their own realm, why should we trust them to protect us?  No matter what I decide, my brothers and I have bound ourselves to our father in a drastic way.  He called us to his side amidst a passionate speech, and together we swore a terrible oath:  

“Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,

brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,

Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,

Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,

dread nor danger, not Doom itself,

shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,

whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,

finding keepeth or afar casteth

a Silmaril. This swear we all:

death we will deal him ere Day's ending,

woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,

Eru Allfather! To the everlasting

Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.

On the holy mountain hear in witness

and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”

I will never forget a word, for it is as if they are burned into my mind.  Now that the fire has cooled, and I begin to think upon our oath, I fear that nothing good can come of it.  My only hope is that we recover the Silmarils quickly, so that we can be free.

Maitimo Fëanorian  

1495, Age of the Trees

I don’t understand what has happened today.  I’m not sure that I want to.  Until now, I thought our quest justified and righteous, but as I stand here, hands drenched in the blood of my kin, I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t have stayed behind, as Amil wished.  If this is but the beginning of a path bathed in red, I am not sure it is a path I wish to follow.  I can see Atar in the distance, loading the ships and preparing to leave, but I find I do not trust him the way I once did.  He has changed.  Until now, I haven’t seen it. I was so busy agreeing with his apparent slights that I never really looked at him.  Who he was becoming.  Ever since he crafted the Silmarils, he has become more withdrawn, more paranoid.  He constantly believed that uncle Nolofinwe was trying to supplant him in Haru’s good graces.  Before all this, he crafted weapons, which had never been seen before in the Blessed Realm.  He said it was for self-defense, should Nolofinwe make a formal move against him, but now I do not believe that.  I think he may have been planning an attack on my uncle before Morgoth returned, but was pacified by Nolofinwe’s professed allegiance.  Now, he is free from all bonds of loyalty, and I fear what he might do.  They are calling to board the ships, so I cannot write more, but I will at next convenience.                                

Maitimo Fn5;anorian

1497, Age of the Trees

My fears were not ill-founded.  Atar has now strayed beyond the reach of reason, abandoning most of our people far from the shores of this country.  He claims all the others are useless baggage.  I cannot believe him, for my kinsman and dear friend Findekano is among those left behind.  He is valiant and true-hearted, more so than many in our company now.  The Teleri ships are burning, and their flames rise high into the night.  If I ventured a guess, I would say even Nolofinwe and his company can see them.  They will know Atar has betrayed them.  They have no choice but to return to Valinor for judgement.  I know Nolofinwe is too wise to cross the Helcaraxe, where even Maiar fear to tread.  He cares too much for his people.  I fear I will not see him again.  As I write, I must hold back tears, for the Teleri are not the only casualties of our flight. Many were lost on the crossing, but most dear to my heart is Amburussa, my brother.  Usually my two youngest brothers are always together, but the youngest twin was aboard a boat tonight.  My brothers and I suspect he meant to sail home, to Amil. Atar didn’t think of anything else in his fervor, and as the ships of the Teleri burned, so did my brother.  Atar has gone beyond kinslaying now.  All Eldar are kin, but family is sacred. I don’t know if I will ever forgive him.  I love my brothers, more than even he can understand.  Now I must carry the weight of one more death, and this one ways heavier than any before.  I pray his soul will find only a short wait in Mandos, and then perhaps he can meet Amil again.  That was, after all, his intent.  He was always her favorite.  Her baby.  Atar is coming.  I know he will not approve of this journal.  Hopefully I will write again soon.            

Maitimo Fn5;anorian

1498, Age of the Trees

Canafinwë Fëanorian, High King of the Eldar

I write this entry with a heavy heart.  Our brother, Nelyafinwë, has fallen under the shadow of Morgoth.  I fear we shall not see him again.  We feigned to treat with Morgoth, both sides bringing a larger force than agreed, but Morgoth’s was largest, and there were Balrogs.  There was nothing we could do.  Our brother’s company was overwhelmed, and he was taken deep into the darkness of Angband.  Morgoth has sent us messages of ransom, saying that he will release our brother if we but forsake our war against him, either returning to the West or removing from Beleriand into the south of the world.  We know these cannot be trusted.  Morgoth will never release our brother.  Not if we did all these things and more.  Even if we wished to obey his terms, we could not, for we are all bound by our oath, and may never forsake war against our Enemy, no matter the reason.  We cannot muster a full attack on Angband, either.  We are forced to abandon our brother, our king.  Nothing burns us more than being helpless, yet here we are, the mighty sons of Feanor, forced to give up.  Those with gifted eyesight in our company say they can see a figure hanging from the mountain near Angband, the one we have named Thangorodrim.  Some believe they have even glimpsed red hair.  If it is Nelyafinwë, I pray he is dead.  Then his spirit will at least be safe in Mandos for a time.  I do not wish to think of what may come to pass if he yet lives.  

Years of the Sun, 472

What can I say for you, Findekano?  Ever since we were children, playing in the light of the Trees, I knew you would be greater than me.  We shared a unending dedication, but you were always so untainted, so pure.  Your pursuits were selfless, and as my family and I fell out of favor, you only ascended.  Prince of the House of Nolofinwn5;, most beloved of all the Eldar.  I rue the day my father moved your heart to follow us.  Now you have fallen prey to the same fate, but this time, it was my doing.  I drew you into battle against a foe we can never hope to defeat, and when we were surrounded, I fled.  I should have died with you, dear Findekano.  We should have finished as we started: together.  Instead I linger here, wandering the wilds, bearing the weight of all my fallen comrades.  When I was lost, you refused to give up hope, despite the bitterness Morgoth had planted between us.  While others were content to think me dead, even my brothers, you set out to find me.  You laughed in the face of our Enemy, singing songs of Valinor upon the very doorstep of Angband, and I sang with you. Despite all that had come between us in days hence, you refused to give up on me, even when I begged for death.  In the months and years following, you forced me to learn how to live again.  When I wanted to give up, you never abandoned me.  Because of you, I am here today.  Without you, I would still be hanging in despair under Morgoth’s shadow, far from the light of the stars.  I will always carry you with me, dearest friend.  Your banner is unfurled forever in my heart, and though all the world should fade, you shall never be forgotten.  This I swear, as weary of oaths as I have now become.                     

Maitimo Fn5;anorian

Years of the Sun, 506

What have we done?  Again the Oath drives us to madness.  Dior and his wife are dead, by our hands, along with most of his folk.  And for what?  A Silmaril.  Always, the cursed jewels of our father.  This time, though, we did not all emerge.  There are of us seven sons now only three.  Myself, Macalaurë, and the oldest of the Ambarussa.  Curufinwë, Tyelkormo, and Carnistir have fallen at the hands of our enemies.  Tyelko fell to Dior himself, while the others fell in less glorious battle.  I cannot say I am glad they have fallen, but at the same time, perhaps we remaining three will now be free of the cruel influences of our brothers.  Tyelko especially.  He consistently went against my counsel, and his strong persuasion often swayed even me.  While I spoke of restraint, he would whip the others into a fervor, and before I knew it, I would be overruled.  He once tried to take to wife Luthien Tinuviel, and only the treachery of his own hound stopped him.  He was always the most hasty of our brothers, and the least wise.  That does not mean I do not mourn him.  I remember in Valinor, when we were but children.  He was always the most mischievous, and once Carnistir and Curufinwë were born, they were a terrible threesome.  But they were still my brothers, and I loved them dearly.  When they were young, they would always trouble me with silly questions or subject me to a new prank before they tried it on someone else.  I feigned annoyance, but truly in my heart my love for them only grew.  Their antics were endearing, and their bright eyes, filled with the light of Valinor, sent shafts of joy through me at each new discovery.  When Carnistir and Tyelkormo were young, Atar taught them the beginnings of his craft.  As with myself and Macalaurë, they would often cause problems, but he would only roll his eyes and fix their mistakes.  Those were the early days.  When Curufinwë was born, he was so like Atar that we all wondered if he would share the same skill.  He did, and as soon as he was old enough, Atar began spending long hours with him in the forge, and the tokens they emerged with were always exquisite.  The more Curufinwë grew, the more it became apparent that he was almost a carbon copy of Atar.  He had the same quick wit and temper, and the same stubbornness.   Now the same fate.  Carnistir seemed to darken as he grew.  His childish wonder vanished, replaced by an almost constant sullen mood.  No small wonder he was called “the dark”.  When the darkness began creeping into Valinor, those three were Atar’s most staunch supporters, leaping into whatever campaigns he created for them.  They shared his ambition, but also his flaws.  They did not think before they acted, and they did not care to understand others, only master them.  The three of us left were among those who hearkened more to Amil, and learned to understand.  Perhaps that is why we are still here.  Perhaps not.  In the end, we all followed Atar, and it has led us here.  I only pray the road ahead will not lead into deeper darkness.

Maitimo Fëanorian

Years of the Sun, 587

We have done it, Atar.  At long last, we have recovered your accursed jewels.  Morgoth our Enemy is defeated, and we have wrested the Silmarils from the grasp of all, even the Valar.  I hope you are proud of us, Atar, for I am not.  Though I have forever tried to cleanse myself, all I can see when I look at my hand is the blood of the slain.  So many have died because of you, Atar.  Because of all of us.  So many lives have been spent for the recovery of three jewels, most precious to you, including our own.  I can no longer see myself in who I have become.  I know Macalaurë feels the same.  Eönwë was right.  The blood of our kinsfolk is an eternal stain.  We have done so many appalling things, blinded by our oath; we have truly lost ourselves.  I know now that we can never go back.  We are so far changed that our right to the Silmarils is void.  The pure light burns us, beyond our skin to our very souls,  Macalaurë tries to hide it, but I can see the torment in his eyes.  We cannot keep them, Atar.  They will drive us mad.  But without them, we are again bound by our oath, forced to commit atrocities or face the Everlasting Darkness.  Never to be free.  I see now there is only one way to escape.  Only one way to return to Aman without stain.  I must end it, Atar.  Forever.  I will end this curse.  The Silmaril burns me.  It will burn with me.  Perhaps I will see you soon, Atar.

Farewell,

Maitimo Fëanorian