Crossroads by Gwanath Dagnir  

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The Lesser Evil

(Mind the story dates - this chapter takes place in the past)

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CIRCA 547, F.A. – OSSIRIAND

 

After Harndur’s departure, each day seemed to change from the last as if blooming into a new season. Not knowing what to expect, the twins watched like spectators to a strange dream unfolding while the camp became a bustle of renewed energy as the once-despondent exiles took to their tasks with verve and gladness. Even the forest seemed to breathe easier. Soon hunting parties came and went again at leisure, and meals were served hot around a community fire every night. The lookouts who used to signal so often for quiet and caution that the camp functioned by default as if danger had an ear to the fence now rang bells to help visitors find their way from afar. Chests were delivered full of precious things that used to be finite (oils and lye and candles and ink and salt) by more fancy Elves welcomed as neighbors. Maglor -like everyone these days- was kept busier but devoted no less attention to his custodial duties – the twins endured his doting as the one constant that seemed impossible to change. Even Maedhros, when not holding conferences behind the closed door of his abode, regularly attached himself as a silent shadow to their familial affairs.

Sometimes less silent than others.

“Straighten your wrist, Peredhel!” he called from the outside of the perimeter where someone could be excused as a passerby, unless they had watched the lesson from its start. He was so tall that no one in camp could block his view, and he stood a head above the swordmaster as he passed him from behind to enter the sparring circle. “Halt the match, he must be made to understand.”

He took it upon himself to demonstrate the correction, towering above the boy as he widened his stance with a foot and turned his grip. “This is the way you held it before. Mind how the weight pulls your balance off center. Ah – see where you begin to falter? An inch is never more meaningful than at the end of a blade, child. This is straight. Good – now square up and try again.”

He backed away and watched as the sparring resumed. The young student defended a few basic attacks and landed a few advanced ones, before Maedhros stepped into the circle again – with each click of his tongue, the boy’s training partner took another step backward. This time Maglor mirrored his brother’s approach from the other side of the ring.

“What did I do wrong?” The child removed his helm, a gesture of respect to hear a teacher’s instruction most clearly.

“Nothing – but you labour so greatly to do everything fine. Why?”

“I- well, I don’t know,” the boy stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. He was already flush from the exercise and burned hotter from the critique. “Just tell me so I can fix it.”

“Have you been practicing how I taught you? Every single day?”

“Yes, I swear!”

“Hm. Then you must need rest.” Maedhros reached out, changing the boy’s expression from befuddlement to annoyance as he ruffled his hair playfully. “Did I forget to mention that part?”

Maglor laughed, a sound more beautiful for how rarely it is heard since the Dispossessed earned their name. “Let that be enough sweat and strain for the nonce. Where is your brother? We still have our day’s weaving to tend to, or that tapestry will never be finished.”

“I leave you to it,” said Maedhros, turning away.

“Before you go, this arrived.” Maglor presented a scroll of particular opulence – its handles were carven whitewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the ribbon so bright it could have been bound with spun gold.

Maedhros stared at it unmoving. “Finarfin,” he finally said.

Maglor looked back and forth between his brother’s face and the message as his own expression hardened. “Shall I open it for you?”

“No. No need. Thank you.” Maedhros blinked and shifted, taking the scroll and putting it into the pocket of his tunic. He took a deep breath from the far air, as though something in the distance beckoned. “Why not fetch your other lad, Maglor. My feet itch for a stroll, and it should be a clear night. We can pack a meal and visit the brook, all of us together. It’s been so many years.” He looked down at the child eyeing him dubiously and had to smile – he was like a timid fawn pondering the motive of rainfall. “You could use a good washing, I wager. If your twin is up to the usual mischief, he will likely be found in similar need.”

“Hm. Very well,” said Maglor, though his glance held its own suspicions. “Come along and lead the way,” he said, ushering the child ahead. “I haven’t seen your brother since breakfast.”

“The hunting party brought back a deer for meat, he’s been helping to butcher it.” He strained his neck around to see past Maglor as they walked. Maedhros stood right where they left him, staring off into nothing. “Hey – what was that all about? Are we really going out to just… what, bathe in the creek like wild ducks?”

“How strange – no. We will also sit for lunch in the grass like wild ducks.”

He shook his head at the strange humour that seemed to have infected the two most woebegone people he had ever known. But he took Maglor’s hand, as if it could keep him from reaching again for the grief that he usually held so dear. 

The sun had set hours ago when Maedhros finally stood up from the feathery grasses beside the creek.

The twins were making a game of sneaking up on croaking toads in their watery hiding spots, but now they eagerly tiptoed across the rocks to reach dry land. One yawned when he started to speak and his brother completed the sentence, “Is it time to go back?”

Maglor sat up from where he had been reclined beside his brother, gazing at the stars and talking together.

“Bah… I thought we might try living as Green Elves for a while.” Maedhros rummaged around in the bags they had brought, eventually retrieving a bottle from one. “Though we must finish this wine first, of course, since Green Elves drink that dreadful herbal tonic they brew.”

He tossed the bottle to Maglor, who caught it with a startled look that intensified as he turned it around in his hands. “Where did you get this?” he asked, almost laughing in disbelief.

“I made it,” said Maedhros. “Don’t be too excited! It’s only berry wine, but it should have turned out better than my cooking.” He kept feeling around in the bags, taking inventory. “Children, there is more bread, and chestnuts, and figs. Are you hungry? Come sit to eat, and after you finish play us the flute for a while – those toads look prettier than they sing.”

They had already eaten two meals in all the time spent away from camp that day. One could begin to wonder if Maedhros truly joked, or if those bags were packed with supplies to survive out here in the wild after all. The twins returned to the blanket and sat cross-legged while Maglor and Maedhros passed the bottle back and forth, taking measured sips and talking more and more.

They spoke of Valinor, of their brothers, of days in tenuous peace when it seemed possible the Curse had forgotten the Dispossessed in Middle-earth. They shared more words that night than the twins had heard between any two elves in their company during a whole year combined, of things they had never known nor guessed. The stories took on the quality of a siren song to their imaginations, lulling them into the reverie of elven slumber. Eventually the fire Maglor had built burned low, and Maedhros alone sat before it, nursing the flames to their fullest with the meager wood remaining.

He patted the ground next to him in silent invitation, hearing one of the Half-elven crawling out from the tangle of his brothers’ limbs.

The child sat and looked up at the face of Maedhros that seemed to combat the waning firelight with its own haunting luminance. Though scarred and drawn in a way uncommon to the agelessness of elves, he was still beautiful. But whatever reprieve from anguish that had graced these last hours was fading; he sat slumped in resignation of some ill fate.

“Are you cold? I can find more wood.”

“The sun itself will warm us soon enough,” said the boy. The deepening sadness in Maedhros’ expression betrayed the true nature of this prolonged outing: he did not want the night to end. The boy moved closer to share the heat between their bodies. “I mean, this is fine,” he said.

Maedhros twisted to look behind them where Maglor lay asleep, the empty bottle sideways in his left hand and the other twin curled around his right arm. “Do you understand why things have changed?”

The child noticed a scroll lying discarded between Maedhros’ feet and the fire. He had seen those things passed around since Harndur first came, but never one so fancy. “Because of the Elven army arrived from Valinor. Everyone toils now making plans and preparations.”

“Yes. And not only has come a great host of Elves, but the Valar themselves,” said Maedhros gravely. “War will be brought upon Morgoth and all of his instruments in Middle-earth, the likes of which has never been waged before. His utter defeat is assured, but the cost will be tremendous, incalculable. We will all of us pay our share to afford that victory – even the divine, even the innocent.” Maedhros glanced behind again and sighed. “How small you still are. It would serve you better to be more Man than Elf, to grow larger faster in the manner of the Secondborn. Only moreso, you must heed your training and practice diligently. Remember to eat well and rest enough, especially whilst your body is yet immature. Feed your mind with things of import also, and your heart with things of joy. You must carve out the time for it like a dwarf chisels stone, though the world may seem to fall apart around you, lest you leave this war hollow and listless as a ghost whether living or dead. …What are you doing?”

The child had stood up. “You never speak to me this way. Why are you saying such things?”

Maedhros stared into the dwindling fire, eventually reaching over to toss the scroll upon it. An eager plume of flame burst up, and the fire cackled as if with defiant laughter before choking on too much air, nothing left to fuel its ire. “I think you know.”

“Does he?” The boy swung an arm in the direction of Maglor where he snored.

“He is no fool. But wake him from the comfort of his dreaming, if you must. And then he will be sick with dread until the inevitable befalls.” Maedhros covered his face briefly, then took to flinging errant leaves toward the embers already too weak to react. “Perhaps it is just as well. We can go back.” He moved to stand.

“Wait-” the child sat close again. “Suppose we should keep watch, you know, until it’s gone out completely.” The fire popped and hissed in its death throes over the sound of the creek bubbling merrily nearby.

Maedhros spread his cloak to cover them both. “Which one are you, anyway?”

“I think you know.”

 

 

A week or a month might have passed before the day the lookouts rang their bells and did not stop until a chord of bellowing horns drowned them out.

Maglor sat in his tent with one of Eärendil’s sons on each side and a crude tapestry before them, its yarn fashioned from scraps of clothing worn beyond any better use. While the twins bounced excitedly to their feet at the ruckus, Maglor went inert with eyes shut.

The children settled at once, staring at his inaction in disbelief.

“A messenger has never arrived blaring horns before,” said one. “It must mean something important.”

“I want to see! Should we not go out with the others?”

Finally, Maglor stirred. “So we must,” he said in a small voice. “First put on your layers. All of them.”

They obeyed eagerly but as they hurried into their outer clothes one pondered aloud, “It’s not that cold, is it?”

“It will be, tonight.” Maglor held open the flap of the tent and waited until they rushed past him with reinvigorated excitement.

Outside, the Elves around camp seemed to have frozen in place where they stood. Their faces were drawn with bitter resignation, and not a little fear. The twins saw Maedhros standing alone -his valet had become a statue far away from his lord’s side- and himself looking anguished but resolute toward the gate.

Suddenly insecure, the twins reached unconsciously for Maglor’s hands who came to stand behind them, but he grasped their shoulders and kept them facing forward.

Soon a dozen white horses trotted into camp and formed a block, their manes braided with ribbons of gold and blanketed in black and white wolvestooth. The three riders in rear lifted curved horns that shimmered like pearl, and the elves standing witness shrank at the piercing chord that they blew. The riders on the perimeter held spears aloft bearing white standards emblazoned with eight points in the color of flame. Two riders came forward and dismounted together, and the twins recognized the swiveling helm of Harndur as he surveyed their surroundings. The Elf beside him stood no taller but statelier, and when he removed his helm, his head remained crowned with golden braids wound around a jeweled circlet.

“Hail King Finarfin,” Harndur bellowed, as one bred for the task.

The face of Finarfin was noble and of temperate inclination, making the anger that unnaturally contorted his fine features only more ominous. He charged ahead to meet Maedhros, who seemed to stand straighter and wither at the same time before his smoldering glare. The instant Maedhros opened his mouth to speak, the words were interrupted by a flat-handed cuff across his face. The air fell utterly silent after the hiss of a hundred gasps from the elves who watched, dumbfounded.

“Hello, uncle,” said Maedhros in an unaffected tone. He spat blood onto the dirt before correcting his stance. “I still have one hand to clasp with, you know – unless that is how kin greets kin in Valinor these days.”

“This is not Valinor,” Finarfin snapped, massaging his palm with the opposite thumb briefly. “And a lifetime of atonement separates me from the ghosts of my kin there, who followed after your cursed father to their deaths.”

“We share this in common,” said Maedhros evenly. He cocked a shoulder backward. “I would offer my humble hospitality to your Highness, if you rode all this way to endure it.”

“My message gave no illusion of a mood to court your friendship, Maedhros – not anymore. Now cease this trifling! Bring to me Eärendil’s sons and relinquish them willingly, lest even the privilege of serving as rearguard in my host shall be withdrawn from you, and any measure of redemption remain beyond your reach this side of the Sundering Seas whilst the world lasts.”

Maedhros visibly seethed but said nothing, and Finarfin swelled as though he might strike again.

“Uncle, please – I deserve the blame for this trespass,” said Maglor, steering the Half-elven in front of him as he walked forward. “These boys are dear to me, and it was my device to conceal them, but only in the interest of protecting them as I have done all these years. Maedhros merely humoured the folly of my fragile heart’s desire, for my own sake.”

Finarfin turned, and his expression softened to behold the children that cowered to find themselves at the center of this spectacle. He stepped forward, bending at the waist to peer into their eyes – he did not need to look long, and straightened to regard Maglor. “I see they are as well as might be expected, perhaps even better. So, you have cared for them.”

“As if they were my own sons.”

“I believe you.” Finarfin made no motion, but two elves separated from the party and led their horses along with Finarfin’s own to wait behind him. For a moment the lofty King melted into the uncle he was addressed as and spoke kindly, “From one father to another, I am sorry. Know that what must happen now is in their best interest, though it will pain you no less. Even I am merely an instrument of greater designs in this matter, and the powers that be overrule all else.”

Maglor looked away as Finarfin stepped back and grew majestic again.

“Harken to me, Half-elven. I am Finarfin, last son of Finwë and King of the Ñoldor in Aman. From Eärendil your father we learned of his sons’ tragic demise in the Kinslaying at Sirion, for alas he had every cause to believe it was so.” He paused, eying them pointedly. “Yet here you are, alive and hale.”

The twins checked each other worriedly. 
“Is all of this because of us?” one said, dismayed.
“We were never dead, in case that… helps,” offered the other.

Finarfin’s expression inched further toward its natural state until settling into a smile. “Manwë will be glad to know it, as am I. When Eärendil sailed to the Blessed Realm, he pleaded with the Valar for salvation on behalf of the Two Kindreds, and along with that boon was also appointed a special doom for the Half-elven, which is above my station to impart. But the Valar do not know to look for you among the Dispossessed, and the Curse of Mandos is not laid upon Elwë’s progeny regardless – therefore, I bid you to come with me and abide in dignity and honour as is befitting for princes of noble houses, until such time as your fate can be revealed to you.”

The boys jolted, but Maglor’s hands upon their shoulders kept them in place.
“It is final,” he told them in a stern tone, though his voice shook. “Soon these lands will quake beneath the wrath of divine retribution, and the Dispossessed are determined to earn whatever redemption is available to us in the warfare to come. But we command no stronghold that can ensure your safekeeping, and a battlefield is no place for children. You must heed Finarfin now and go.” 
His grip firmed as they tried to turn toward him, and with a mirrored nod, Finarfin swooped down and scooped up one of the twins into each of his arms.

Maedhros’ voice rose above the uproar of their surprised outbursts as he approached, “Change comes to all things in these lands of death and fading, Half-elven. Any home the Eldar make here is temporal, especially one so poorly as this. Consider it a belated reward after your infuriating efforts to rid yourselves of this place throughout these bleak years. Go now and be free at last.”

“Reward,” repeated one child with derision as he was maneuvered to sit in front of an Elf rider. “Snake! You hide behind a façade of courtesy just as you hid behind your prize shields whilst it availed you to do so. Now that we’ve outlived our use to ward off Gil-galad’s retaliation, you would trade us as wergild in exchange for scraps from the table of the armies of Valinor!”

“I would,” said Maedhros joylessly, “if closer we come to Morgoth’s defeat thereby.”

“Closer to Morgoth’s Silmarils, you mean!” the other twin cried as he was hoisted into place likewise.

“He has no claim to keep them,” said Maglor, close to a moan. He had withdrawn to his brother’s shadow, folding into his own cloak as if it could digest him. “Something so sacred should never have come by ill means to one so unworthy.”

His ire hardening into a sharp edge as it cooled, the first twin said, “Then may they come back to you, that which you treasure above all else.”

By then Finarfin had mounted his own horse and turned around the steeds of his entourage with a simple gesture of one hand. He regarded Maedhros with a temper softened by relief. “For my part, I shall consider this matter settled and speak no ill of it. Though I cannot say to what extent the Valar may be appeased by this minimal concession to put right such a grievous wrong. But I leave you for now in peace, nephew. Be well and diligent in your preparations for the trials soon to come. The fate of us all lies beyond dark days ahead, for better or for worse.”

At the sound of one last chord from three great horns, they rode out of the encampment. Through the maze of trees, the twins spotted surrounding cavalry pacing and outpacing Finarfin’s personal procession. They took to a canter as soon as the terrain allowed it, emerging from the shelter of forest like a swarm of fireflies shining free against the setting sun. In the vast meadow that stretched before them, a battalion of armored warriors stood in wait like a deadly herd, their size outnumbering Maedhros’ meager host four to one. Finarfin silently joined at the head of their shape, until scout riders darted out of the treeline and approached him directly.

“None pursue!” said one breathlessly. “They closed and barred the gate straightaway. All inside is quiet.”

Harndur barked out a triumphant laugh and hit the air with a clenched first, while an elated murmur rippled through the crowd.

The final Kinslaying would come another day.

 

~tbc~