Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

Maedhros

Celegorm and Curufin were here, Amrod and Amras were on their way, and Caranthir would arrive tomorrow.

“They are unchanged.” Maglor observed after taking a good look at the two brothers from a distance.

Which means they are as troublesome as ever, Maedhros thought. In the blazing sunlight of late summer, the host brought by Celegorm and Curufin stood in disciplined formation, silent and still. Composed of carefully selected archers and riders, greater in number than was typically necessary, with the Star of Fëanor engraved on armor, embossed on shields, and embroidered on surcoats, it was no mere escort—it was an army prepared for war. Maedhros knew Celegorm to be an excellent commander, whose strategies had dealt the forces of Morgoth significant blows in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, but he doubted Celegorm had gone to such lengths just to flaunt his power.

“Maitimo,” Celegorm called, noticing his frown as he dismounted from his white stallion, tossing the reins to an attendant. “Is it so painful to see us?”

“Do you lack all confidence in pleasing your elder brothers?” Maedhros retorted, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Or have we both failed to find a better joke?”

He expected his brother to bristle at the remark, but to his surprise, Celegorm simply laughed it off. Perhaps even a hasty-riser can learn patience and wisdom in the end, he thought. For do not we all?

After Celegorm, Curufin approached. “I trust our visit does not trouble you too much, my brother.”

In truth, you could not trouble me more, Maedhros thought. However, he simply nodded and made a gesture of welcome. “Of course not. As brothers, we have been apart for too long. It is time for a family reunion.”

At that, Curufin raised a brow, offering a knowing smile.

Maedhros left it to Maglor to handle the necessary arrangements for Celegorm, Curufin, and their unusual escort. He needed time to clear his thoughts and prepare himself, for despite what had been said, he was certain that Celegorm and Curufin had not merely come for a family reunion. Leadership of the House of Fëanor was no simple task; a heroic reputation might help, but it was far from sufficient.

Your father had always known this, Findekáno, though in the end, even he could not bear it.

He caught himself drifting back into old habits and let out a weary sigh. Old habits must truly die hard, for even after so much time, he still found himself conversing in his mind with a name long lost—a name whose bearer had departed without a grave behind. The familiar sound of it stung his heart—if I even have a heart, he corrected himself, his lips curving downward. How can one still have a heart after dying, not once, but twice? The one who defied his father to defend a friend perished long ago, on the accursed rock of Thangorodrim. What you risked your life to bring back, Findekáno, is but a lingering glimmer of fire, one that has seen and tasted darkness and can no longer endure it.

He halted his wandering thoughts. After all, he had changed. When needed, he could be a ruthless and formidable warrior, yet he was also a leader adept at evaluation and calculation, preserving their strength and minimizing unnecessary losses. That was why his brothers had rallied to him upon hearing of Lúthien’s death and Dior’s return to Doriath.

It seemed the time had come to reassert their claim to the Great Jewel once more.

But is it just to demand what we have not earned but inherited, while others have bled and died for it?

Seated behind his desk, Maedhros pondered.

...“Again, Maitimo.” came Fingon’s voice.

He had long lost count of how many times his sword had been knocked from his grasp. With a clang, the blade struck the ground nearby as Fingon withdrew his own weapon and stepped back, ready for another round of practice.

Now you can easily beat me, Findekáno, but the advantage was never yours in the past, he thought. In those days, I was your teacher and trainer.

But he did not say it. If he had learned anything on the rockface of Thangorodrim, it was the value of silence. Walking to where his sword lay, he bent down and reached for it—using his left hand, of course. As his fingers slowly closed around the clammy hilt, he could feel Fingon’s gaze upon him, laden with concern and conflict.

Thankfully, there was no pity.

Suddenly, a surge of rage overtook him. Looking up, he locked eyes with Fingon. “This is unfair.”

“I know.” Fingon replied, his voice steady. “And you have known it from the beginning, Maitimo. It was you who said the Enemy would not deal fairly with us.”

“Are you the Enemy then?” Maedhros leveled his sword in Fingon’s direction, his eyes sparkling. “The Enemy may not deal fairly with us, but you will be fair with me. Now fight me again,” he demanded, a smile creeping onto his face, “with your left hand.” ...

The Enemy will not deal fairly with us, of course. Wielding the weapon of betrayal, Morgoth crushed your life and my hope. Yet you and I are not the same: you fell as a king, with your ending met, while I am condemned to live on, carrying a shattered yet lingering hope.

Dior Eluchíl and the Silmaril. Maedhros touched the stump of his sword-hand in spite of himself. It is unfair, and I know it. But what would you do if you were me, Findekáno? Would you choose to reclaim the other two Jewels first? Would you strike at Morgoth once again, defying the power of Angband as your father did, even knowing it would be a desperate attempt doomed to fail?

I know you would, for you never swore an oath in the name of Ilúvatar, nor had you glimpsed the Everlasting Dark beyond redemption. That is why you could still live up to your valiant reputation and choose to sacrifice, while I cannot—even though I hold no attachment to this broken life. Until the Oath is fulfilled, my own fate is but one weight on the scales, for I must account for my six brothers.

Do you see it now, Findekáno? I have but one choice.

...Stop, Maitimo.

A different voice intruded then, instantly heightening his vigilance. Is that truly you, Findekáno?

...You are standing on the edge of the abyss. Do not test its depth.

Or is it, once again, merely a phantom conjured up by my mind—haunting, deceiving, and threatening me, like the terrors of Thangorodrim?

The sun slowly drifted past the zenith. Bright sunlight poured through the window, casting sharp beams onto the floor and carving a distinct boundary between light and shadow.

“I will first send him a request,” Maedhros declared with finality, to the empty room.