Neither Speak Nor Answer by Idrils Scribe  

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Neither Speak Nor Answer

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It was not long before whispered tales began to pass among the Sindar concerning the deeds of the Noldor ere they came to Beleriand. Certain it is whence they came, and the evil truth was enhanced and poisoned by lies; but the Sindar were yet unwary and trustful of words, and (as may well be thought) Morgoth chose them for this first assault of his malice, for they knew him not.

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 15, Of the Noldor in Beleriand

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Menegroth, the 67th year of the First Age

“Who told you this?”

“A hermit, sire.” The young huntress—Hwinnel is her name—dares not meet my questioning gaze. “We met by chance as I hunted ermine, deep into Dorthonion.”

“Of what clan was this hermit?”

Before the dais, Hwinnel looks aside to the hall’s tree-shaped pillars as if she might disappear between them like a wary hind shelters in a grove of beeches. She is a Green-elf from Ossiriand, ill at ease in the lamplit splendour of Menegroth’s great hall. I should be doing more to put her at ease, but I know what she is about to answer, and it fills my heart with dread.

“He did not say, sire,” she rattles in her soft Nandorin lilt, eager to please me with the answers I desire. “I cannot describe his face, so unremarkable it was, but he dressed strangely. He wore a reindeer parka like the folk of Mithrim, but his braids were in the style of Doriath, and he carried a bow of horn and yew, like we of the Seven Rivers make. He seemed … of mingled kindred, or all kindreds at once, perhaps?”

“All at once, or none at all?”

Hwinnel falls quiet, and now I see fear behind her eyes. Like all her people she is keen-sighted. She knows this stranger was not what he seemed, but she cannot put words to her unease.

I keep the dread off my face, and with a smile I lean forward on my throne, catching her gaze in kingly benevolence. “Thank you for bringing me this news, Mistress Hwinnel. You did well.”

The poor woman sags with relief. I should compensate her trouble. “Captain Beleg here will take you to the armoury. Choose a dagger of Dwarven steel for your reward.”

She bows, reassured of the king’s good will. Beleg's smile is all warmth as he leads her off. He takes pleasure in generosity, especially when arming those Green-elves who still carry knives knapped from flint.

When the doors close I call for wine to sweeten the darkness of my thoughts.

Hwinnel’s tale is not the first of its kind, alas.

Another shadowy thread in a pattern that emerges like a tapestry being woven, for eyes to see that can. I can almost grasp it, and what I am seeing frightens me.

Others, too, have brought me similar tales from the wilds beyond the Girdle. Each time the story is scarily alike: a chance-meeting as dusk falls and mist creeps up from the marshes … a hermit in the lightless woods … clothing and gear familiar enough not to arouse suspicion but too mingled to pinpoint its provenance. And always the speaker remains nameless, kinless … A whispering shadow, melting back into the land once they deliver their foul tale to my people’s ears.

And what a tale this is, of dreadful deeds beyond the Western Seas.

Elf slaughtering Elf. Lindarin blood running red on the beach, shed by those haughty Golodhrim princes. Even Olwë’s grandchildren—my own blood—have gore-stained hands.

Surely these are lies—not even the eldest among the Eldar ever heard of such vileness. But who would invent a horror so unspeakable? What perverted mind might dream it up?

Only one in all Arda. Morgoth. The Master of Lies is back at his craft.

But lies or no, these tales are gaining ground.

Círdan, too, hears whispers, seeping in like smoke past the guards and wards laid on the Falas. His messengers report that the quays of Brithombar and Eglarest are abuzz with them. As are Menegroth’s halls. My people shrink away from Eärwen’s sons when they pass in the street, whispering behind their backs. Melian’s ladies cease their song at Artanis entering the weaving hall. In the taverns, my marchwardens brawl with Finrod’s men.

Morgoth has sown this rumour like a seed, and already it bears its dreadful fruit. Whether true or not, it rends Elvenkind asunder. Once divided against ourselves he will devour us one by one.

Creeping rot.

I am the King of Beleriand. To me falls the task of dragging it into the light so it withers.

But what if the tales are true? What horror lies hidden behind the shadows that veil the West?

My own brother’s grandchildren came unbidden and found welcome at my door. They feasted in my halls, and in repayment they withhold the truth.

Such ruthless arrogance these Noldor show! They lay claim to the lands of the Sindar, while looking down on us as lesser beings. "Moriquendi" they dubbed us in their proud Quenya tongue. Dark Elves. Us, who battled Morgoth while they cowered behind the walls of the Valar! Fairest of all Elves they may seem, but theirs is the poisonous beauty of flowering nightshade.

“Mablung!”

“Sire?” My captain comes to stand beside the throne on the dais. He has earned that right. He eyes me warily. He, too, has heard the travellers’ tales.

“Send out couriers to recall my privy counsellors to Menegroth. I need their advice on a judgement.”

“Aye, Sire.” Mablung waits. I have no complex legal cases pending, and he knows it.

“And summon the children of Eärwen to appear here before me seven nights hence, at the new moon.”

Mablung salutes. He approves, I can tell. He was ever a man of deeds.

“Will you dictate a summons, Sire? On what business should I invite them?”

“Say only that their time to speak has come.”

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“Sire,” Mablung bows crisply, “Olwë’s grandchildren are without and under guard, as you commanded. Shall I bring them in?”

As always my loyal captain has the proceedings in hand, even the unsavoury matter of confronting my newfound kinsfolk.

All four present themselves as commanded: Finrod the eldest, the one with Olwë’s eyes; Angrod and Aegnor, the fell ones; and their sister. Young Artanis is the most formidable of them all, so gifted in her study of Song.

Here I have set myself up surrounded by the trappings of state, ermine robes and a crown of white gems that glitter like swords. Beside me on the dais sits Melian, and one step below us Lúthien, my heir. All my court and counsellors have gathered, filling the great hall, but the Staff of Doom lies heavy in my hand.

I alone am king. I alone can judge. And judge I must.

What have they done, these strangers who wear my brother’s face?

I have dispatched Orcs enough. I know what it is to kill, but how does it feel to run through an Elf? Do Elvish muscle and sinew part the same beneath the blade? What is it like to see the blood spurt red, not black?

Does Finrod know the answer? Angrod and Aegnor? Galadriel, whose golden light is dunned by shadow? My own kinsman Celeborn has given her that name—did he cherish a viper at his breast?

Here they come now, approaching the dais through a hedge of horror-struck faces. Of the four, only the sister dares meet my gaze. The herald has instructions not to call her Galadriel. He announces her by her Quenya name. Artanis. So alien on our tongues.

Finrod’s lowered eyes tell me all I need to know. This is not the look of a man falsely accused.

So the tales are true. Eru Allfather help us.

A rush of whispers runs through the hall. "Kinslayer!" Sindarin had no word for this new horror. Quenya does, and now the speech of the usurpers has conquered even the mouths of my people. It sits ugly on the tongue. I pity my people, that our speech must suffer such a word.

What, now, is justice? No weregild could cleanse hands so fouled. No jewels from across the sea or fine silks or pure-bred horses. How many Valinorean diamonds is a life worth?

I would be within my rights to cast them out. My counsellors are of that mind.

“Banish them from Doriath!” said Elmo. My younger brother. I have never seen his beloved face so pale with rage. Are we three brothers still, or has Olwë died on an Elvish blade?

“Banish them. The Shadow of Mandos lies upon them,” said Melian, wisest of queens, who sees far and knows many things.

Oh yes, I would be within my rights. I could order the Noldor out of my realm, across the Blue Mountains and into the East. But in such a command lies the seed of defeat.

Even if by some miracle the usurpers depart without bloodshed from the lands they took, they would abandon their siege and leave my people to face Morgoth alone.

No. There is no justice in banishment.

Greater weregild there could be as well. Other voices call for it.

“Blood for blood!” said Eöl the Fatherless, the sternest of my vassals, come from his dark wood to speak his mind.

And would it not be just? When an Elf is turned into an Orc, ending that wretched, wicked life is no crime.

I hear that in the wine-houses, this talk is rife. “Cast them back into the sea from whence they came!” folk clamour when in their cups. “Let Mandos sort them out!”

Where is that line to be drawn? If an Orcish spirit dwells in an Elvish body, is it not right to slay the flesh and turn the spirit over to Mandos?

The wisest of my loremasters have debated the matter, and found no agreement. Would I be just if I demanded blood in recompense for my brother and his people?

Blood for blood indeed. But who would extract it? Who of my people should I command to take the deed upon themselves?

My captains all stand at attention before the dais, the armed fist of Doriath. Elmo and Galathil, his son. Beleg Strongbow, Mablung of the Heavy Hand, Oropher and Amdir. Daeron, whose Song is mightier than any blade.

Who among them would obey so foul an order if the King of Beleriand spoke it? Who would refuse? Who would still follow their king when he proved no better than the evil he was to uproot?

Ah, it would tear a rift in Doriath’s heart. A rift for which I see no healing. The madness of the Noldor would set brother against brother.

No, I will not ask for blood.

And yet, am I to look weak? How did that bloody-handed usurper put it? “A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is vain.”

In that, at least, Maedhros Fëanorion is right. I am no King if I allow such villainy to go unchecked.

I must punish, but punish justly.

I know what sentence I will pass. Let the kinslayers keep their lives, and let my people keep their innocence.

For our weregild we shall take their language, their proud Quenya.

Every time the Noldor open their mouths, let them fill it with the tongue of the people they slew.

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But hear my words! Never again in my ears shall be heard the tongue of those who slew my kin in Alqualondë! Nor in all my realm shall it be openly spoken, while my power endures. All the Sindar shall hear my command that they shall neither speak with the tongue of the Noldor nor answer to it. And all such as use it shall be held slayers of kin and betrayers of kin unrepentant.

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 15, Of the Noldor in Beleriand

Author's Note: Many thanks to Marchwriter, Grundy, and LadySternchen for beta-reading, and to Chestnut_Pod for sharing their Elvish name list.