Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

Dior

It was a piece of parchment, slightly discolored, with neat writing upon it: black against faded yellow, in both Runes and Tengwar.

Again, he read it silently.

“To Dior Eluchíl, son of Lúthien and Beren, Heir of Elu Thingol.”

The young ruler of Doriath rose from his seat. Neither an Elf nor a Man, Dior Aranel Eluchíl carried his mother’s unparalleled beauty and his father’s weathered gaze. Within him, the fates of the Firstborn and the Followers intertwined seamlessly, creating a peculiar and singular charm.

In the great hall, below the dais, his people waited nervously. He offered them a reassuring smile. “It is what we have long expected, nothing more.”

Yes, they had expected this ever since his return to Menegroth—a “request” the sender believed the recipient had no right to refuse.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. However prepared they had been for this day, no one could remain indifferent now that it had arrived. Standing before the High Seat, Dior let his gaze sweep over their faces: some burned with anger, others with anxiety or resignation, but most were marked by fear.

Maybe we do have a reason to be afraid, he sighed to himself. By now, the reputation of the sons of Fëanor among the Grey Elves was far from honorable: they were known as formidable warriors, but also as perpetrators of murder and treason. Two of them had even openly threatened to destroy Doriath when their demand for the Great Jewel was last denied.

But there was more to consider. In these dark times, one could not hope to remain safe simply by avoiding immediate dangers.

“I will not assent to their request.” Dior announced once the murmurs had subsided. “I will not surrender the Jewel to them.”

A heavy silence fell, and all eyes turned to him, breaking with formality.

“I am called Eluchíl,” he continued, his voice calm but resolute. “I will live up to my grandfather’s name.”

The mention of his grandfather, the late King of Doriath, transformed them. One by one, they bowed to him, as though before them stood not a Half-elven youth who had seen less than fifty seasons. And when they straightened, their faces were no longer marked by fear. They were ready.

That is who we are. Once we choose a path, we commit to it with all we have. My father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother, my people: that is who we are. The Noldor are not the only people who know pride and dignity, nor is exile the only way to demonstrate courage.

Afterwards, he walked down a corridor leading away from the great hall, his footsteps echoing softly between the glimmering walls. Those who had designed and built this splendid city were long gone, and the walls, once stained by blood and steel, bore silent witness to their legacy. Yet Menegroth remained—its mystery, grandeur, and pride undiminished. In the silence of the night, the weight of a kingdom’s history, accumulated over thousands of years, surrounded him, both embracing and comforting. But the tide of emotions it stirred threatened to overwhelm him, drawing him into a sea of unbidden thoughts.

Strolling through the passages of the Thousand Caves, Dior pondered.

He touched the Nauglamír again, where the Silmaril was set. The Silmarils—the only surviving seeds of the purest Light, born before the Sun and the Moon—a token of the highest beauty in Arda Marred. In its radiance, he saw his mother once more: Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So many times she sang under the starlit skies of Tol Galen, her voice soft and fair, her smile sad yet content, while the Silmaril rested on her chest like the brightest star. At her side sat Beren Erchamion, always listening attentively, his hand gently clasping hers, his once-dark hair streaked with winter’s grey, and his mortal face etched with the marks of relentless years. Through countless perils and griefs, they had earned a brief time of peace, after which they took an unknown road together, beyond the Circles of the World.

He remembered those nights and the distant sound of water, so vividly that it stirred an ache deep within his heart.

How can I surrender the Jewel that carries such precious memories to those who have never bled to win it? How can I allow my grandfather’s kingdom to yield to the threats of ruthless, unrepentant murderers?

It is true that the sons of Fëanor have sworn to reclaim the Silmarils; but they are not even the maker of what they so fiercely claim as theirs alone. And what have they done to fulfill their oath? Did they aid King Felagund and my father in the Quest? Did they face dangers beyond imagination and confront the terrors of Angband? Did they gain access to the Iron Crown of the Enemy? Did they die for the Jewel, relinquish their fates as the Firstborn, return from the dead, and choose to embrace mortality in the end?

They have no true claim to it.

“My lord,” A voice came from behind.

He stopped. Turning back, he saw his wife. Her silvery hair glimmered in the golden candlelight, and she looked young and fair, though she had seen many more springs and winters than he. Their twin sons, Eluréd and Elurín, stood beside her, their small hands tugging at her long white gown.

“Nimloth,” he called, extending his hand to her. When she placed her hand in his, he was surprised. “Your hand is cold.”

She said nothing, but he saw the conflict and reluctance in her eyes. Gently intertwining his fingers with hers, he pulled her closer. “What is it?”

She leaned against him, her gaze meeting his, and sighed before answering. “I know they are, after all, of our kindred, and they are not as powerful as they seem. But,” she hesitated. “Is this the only way? Is there no other choice?”

To that, he simply smiled. “Trust me, my love.”

Just then, an unbidden vision appeared: the blood-stained Silmaril, newly set into the Dwarven necklace of Nauglamír, resting in the left hand of his father. Against the thick, cruel crimson, its radiance and beauty were even more striking. As the hand dipped it into running water, the color of blood thinned and dissolved, and the vision faded away.

He lingered in confusion for a moment before her voice pulled him back to reality. For the first time since arriving in Menegroth, he found the night dark and cold.

Fortunately, the confusion passed quickly. Shaking his head slightly, he steadied himself.

It is decided.

They want an answer, but I will not grant it, for I will not yield to anything they demand of me.

Except for war.