The Lands of Weeping and of War by bunn  

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Of Men and Elves

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Those of Elrond’s followers that had no separate household of their own generally took their evening-meal in Elrond’s new white-walled hall, along with Elrond himself, when Elrond was not dining with Gil-galad.

But this evening’s conversation promised to be a difficult one, and so Elrond had had a private table set in his living-room.  It was a space that seemed oddly empty, apart from a couple of chests in one corner. The tall windows were covered with long pale canvas hangings that, from the lines of verse embroidered upon them, had clearly been re-purposed from some Vanyar war-tent. 

“I haven’t had much chance to decorate yet,” Elrond said to Elros, seeing him look around with raised eyebrows. 

“That’s what you said last time I was here.  I must remember to send you a few carven chairs. I was over-enthusiastic about the first one someone gave me, and now I have more than I can reasonably fit on a ship without cutting out other things that will be more useful.” 

“They would be welcome: I certainly have space for them. In my defence, I’ve not been sitting idle.  We’ve built a good deal more of the city since you were last here,” Elrond told him. “There is a roof, food and a table.  It’s all I need, really.” 

“The essentials of life,” Maglor agreed. “Though you do seem to be missing a harp.”

“It’s in the bedchamber,” Elrond told him absently, turning to a guest who had just come in, and introduced to Halfdan’s wife, Amdiriel, mother of Hundor, who had declared he would no longer serve Elrond and would be leaving Lindon in the spring, heading east at the head of a sizeable group of the Edain who had decided sailing West was not for them.  

Maglor had already dubbed her son ‘Hundor the restless’ in his mind, so he was interested to see that Amdiriel, a small rounded sort of woman seemed positively sedate by comparison. 

Elrond interrupted their brief exchange of pleasantries. “Maglor, may I introduce you to our kinswoman, Túrris of the House of Hador, Arachon’s mother?  We met in Hithlum, during the war. Túrris, Maglor son of Fëanor is... also our kinsman.”

Túrris was a thin-faced grey-haired woman with a frown graven deep into her brow, not much like her tall broad-shouldered son to look at. She was warmly dressed, with layers of wool and linen showing at neck and cuffs, and around her neck she wore a necklace of moonstones that looked rather too heavy for her thin neck. Maglor gave her a respectful greeting, waiting for her to offer a hand before extending his own. 

“You are the outcast of the family, the Elves say,” she observed. Her hands were thin and wrinkled: Maglor could feel the bones of her fingers clearly beneath the skin. 

“I was,” Maglor agreed. “But I am told it’s a new Age of the world. I have been offered a second chance.”

“Lucky for you.” Lucky was not quite how Maglor thought of it, but he nodded. “And an enemy of the Enemy, which is something more. Elrond said you were one of the Elves who came out of the west in the beginning, is that right?” Elrond waved them to the table as she spoke and so he took a seat next to her, and Elros sat on his other side. 

“That’s right.  I was born in the city of Tirion, in the land of Aman, long before your people awoke in Middle-earth.”

“I shall never get used to Elves, who are so old, yet look so young! As for me, I was born in Dor-lómin during the war.” Her mouth had a bitter twist to it as she said ‘Dor-lómin’. “All my life, we hoped that Elves out of the West would come to save us, but I was a woman grown with children of my own before I ever saw any of your folk.“

“I remember Dor-lómin long ago, beneath the stars,” Maglor told her. “A cold and misty land, quiet, save for the singing of the... the elves who lived there, once. And I recall Hithlum before it fell, too, busy with both Elves and the Men of the House of Hador.”  Before Fingon’s fall. Before the Enemy’s Men had come and enslaved the Men of Hithlum, before the remaining Sindar of Hithlum had retreated to their caves, and then fled into the south. 

“You made my son a picture of our great-grand-nuncle, Hador,” she said, and at the thought the wrinkles graven deep into her brow smoothed, and happier lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. “I put it over the fireplace in my room. He looked so much like my Arachon.”

“How long was it that Dor-lómin was under the Enemy’s hand?” he asked her, thinking that as a mortal she would surely have a keen sense of such things,  but she shrugged.

“Years before I was born, I think. I don’t know.”  She took a generous hunk of bread from the platter, dunked it in her soup and began to eat it hungrily. She was missing a good number of teeth.  

“One hundred and four years of the Sun, from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad until Hithlum was free again,” Elros, overhearing, told them both. “I hoped that we could free the home of Galdor and Gundor, of Huor and Húrin sooner: each year that passed seemed far too long.”

“It was a long war,” Maglor agreed, though looking back, it seemed to him that the war stretched back much further, year upon bloody year, back to the Oath. Or perhaps even before it, to his grandfather's death. That was where Morgoth had begun the war. There had been peace, he remembered that, but it had been a peace of stolen moments and of duty ignored. Now there was truly no war, and no Oath, and no revenge left to take.

Elros nodded. “Long and hard in particular for the Men of Dor-lómin, and Hithlum in general, or so it seemed to me.  I went to Eönwë about it, once I had led my men in battle and knew their strength, and tried to persuade him we should try the Gate of the Noldor and make an attack out of Nevrast into Dor-lómin. I just about had him ready to agree, when we got the word that a great force of dragons had come against the Vanyar host from Doriath. It was five more years after that before we could make it to the passes of the Ered Wethrin. That annoyed me considerably at the time.”

“Five long hungry years, in Dor-lómin,”  Túrris said, and grimaced, taking another piece of bread from the platter on the table and pulling it apart. “My mother used to wish she’d run west as a girl, before the mountain-passes were all closed and guarded. Too late for that, by the time I was born, and far too late for Arachon and his sisters.” She looked sharply sideways at Maglor, eyes narrowed. “You were in the big battle where all our men died, weren’t you? Where did you go after?” and she took a bite of bread. 

Maglor considered her doubtfully for a moment, but decided that if she blamed the Elves in general for her plight, at least she was not blaming him specifically. He could at least be courteous.  “All of us that were left of the eastern host — not so many of us, really — went south and east, to Ossiriand. Not far from here, in fact, only a little further west than the new shoreline of Lindon.”  He pointed through stone walls, out to the west, where the River Gelion and the old Fëanorian fort of Amon Ereb lay fathoms deep now, drowned forever and washed clean by seawater. 

“We never heard,” she said plaintively.  “We didn’t know anyone had survived.”

“Not many did.” 

“Apart from the hidden king in his city. Precious little use he was.”

“Mam!” Arachon protested from further along the table.  

“Not much anyone could do about Morgoth, hidden city or no hidden city.” Halfdan said, with a sage nod. 

“He could have tried,” Túrris said. Her face wrinkled into bitter folds around her dark eyes.  “From all I heard, our men left their homes and children to die for the Elvenking. They wouldn't have taken our homes so easily, if we'd been as cautious as that elf king. And what good did it do him in the end?  None at all!”

Maglor wondered if she knew that Fingon and Turgon were not the same person, and was glad she had not mentioned Maedhros. Still, defending Fingon’s honour was not Maglor’s business. For that matter even defending the honour of Maedhros was not Maglor's concern. Not any more.

“My brother Curufin was very much of your mind,” Maglor said instead of mentioning Maedhros. He thought of Curufin, striding about the small white-limed hall of Amon Ereb, holding forth about High Kings and hidden armies. The image made a curious contrast with Túrris’s small, almost birdlike frame.  “He always disliked Turgon.”

“My great-grandfather Turgon could not save my grandfather Tuor’s home, or his surviving people,” Elros said. “But my Edain took their revenge for him in the end.”

“Late, but better than never,” Túrris said, and crossed her arms sternly, as if Turgon himself was present and had been found sadly wanting. 

“I understand that your art is knitting.” Maglor moved to the safest topic he could think of. 

“My art?  My hobby, I’d say.  I’ve no arts. The tasks that I am practiced at are not tasks that I wished to do, and I’m grateful that there’s no-one now asks them of me.”  She looked down at her plate, and her mouth twisted bitterly. “I lost my youth and my looks to slavery in Hithlum. I’ll never get them back.  I sit in the sun and knit in peace, like an old woman should. I may not do a good job of it, but I would have done, if I’d had the chance to practice sooner.”

“There’s a joy in having made a thing,” Elros said with a sympathetic smile that was only just detectably a little practiced. 

Turris, rather unexpectedly beamed at him, her face breaking into a thousand cheerful wrinkles. “There is. And choosing the colours, and all the different kinds of wool and thread.  I’ll never use them all, but I do love to have them there to choose from.”  

She took a second helping of steamed fish, and then, unexpectedly, shot Maglor a suddenly mischievous thin-lipped grin. “Cheer up there, elf-cousin. If I ever get to talk to them Valar, I’ll have a word or two to say to them about my life, I can tell you. For now, I’ve a full plate here, and I’ll enjoy clearing it.  I suggest you do the same.”

Maglor considered this strangely young and ancient person, who seemed at once a child of a few years, and older than he would ever be, and thought of Finrod, who, somewhere beyond the Western Sea, was probably feeling nostalgic for conversations of this kind. “Now that is sage advice if ever I have heard it. Give the Valar hell, if you get the chance,” he said, and scooped fish and onions onto his bread with enthusiasm. 

*****

While Elros and Maglor had been entertaining Arachon’s mother, Elrond, at the other end of the table, had been talking quietly to Halfdan and Amdiriel about their son’s plans and ambitions, with occasional support from Arachon. 

Halfdan had clearly calmed from his earlier anger, but his wife, though not obviously angry, had, by Maglor’s observation, a spine of fine sprung steel under her fern-patterned linen shirt.  She was not angry, but she was clearly not bending to Elrond’s persuasion, either.  

Amdiriel, like Halfdan, had been one of the children born on the Isle of Balar during the war, before that isle had been whelmed under the waves. 

“Perhaps,” she was saying now, “we should think again about taking ship to the Isle of Gift.  If Hundor really can’t be content here in Lindon, he’d have more opportunities if we take him there, I imagine.”  She fixed Elros with a sharp glance. “It’s not too late to join the great journey, my lord?”

“I’m sure you know the ships will not be ready to set off for some years yet,” Elros told her.  “When they are ready, we will take all who wish to go. But only those who wish to go. Your son is not eager to sail into the west.”

Amdiriel’s steely spine stiffened. “Two years ago, as I’m sure Elrond recalls, my son was all for building his own ship in the haven here, and setting off into the sunset. Now he wants to go inland. Next year, I imagine, he will be making himself a set of wings to go straight up!”

Elros smiled. “I am sure you know your son best. But this is more than one man’s whim, unless he is quite astray about the number of people who have said they will go with him.”

Halfdan, reluctantly, shook his head. “It’s been widely spoken of for some time now. I’ve heard it talked of in Forlond, and among the shepherd-folk up in the hills. I think it’s foolishness, but what can you do?” 

“All these people who have already got a dry warm place to sleep and enough to eat,” Turris said, “ And they want to go gallivanting off into the East, to scratch at the earth and eat deer if the Hunter’s kind, or grass and rainwater if he ain’t, dear of ‘em. But Amdiriel, there’s no point bubbling like a kettle about to boil: if the lad wants to try it, you’ll not stop him. You know what they’re like. The more you tell ‘em they can’t do it the hotter and more bothered they get, and can’t see a single other worthwhile thing they could be up to. Let ‘em go, and make a big pie for when they come back. Not that you'll want my advice, but I've dished it out now anyway.”

Amdiriel turned to Maglor. “And you, my lord Maglor, would you have allowed your foster-sons to go running off into the Wild as my son wishes to do?”

Taken aback, Maglor laughed, somewhat harshly. “If there is one thing I can say I am proud of, it’s that I did not hold them back in their choices.”  He looked over at Elrond. “No. Not quite that. If there is anything I am proud of, it is Elrond, and Elros, and all that they have done and become, and will be. Despite... everything. ”

“When we were Hundor’s age, we were at war,” Elrond told her gently. “There was no escaping it. Not for any of us.” He caught Maglor’s eye and read his thought.  “Not unless we had gone into the West from which there is no returning. That would have meant abandoning dear friends and all our kinsmen in Middle-earth.” He spread a hand to indicate Arachon, and Turris, and then broadened the gesture to include everyone at the table. 

Elros said, reassuring: “We will do all we can to ensure those who choose to travel eastwards have all the need. Hundor knows he can turn back if he wishes.”

“I am very unhappy about this,” Amdiriel said, shooting her husband a very emphatic look. “Very unhappy. But I can’t lock him in the house, I suppose. At least Banwen is a nice enough girl, though how she managed that I don’t know.  Her parents are awful. Still, I suppose there's a silver lining: they're all full of plans to go to the Isle of Gift. At least we don’t have to sail into the West with them!”

*********

The meal was almost done, when a sudden uproar outside brought them to their feet. 

“What is that..?” Elros began, turning to the door, but Maglor was already moving. He had caught the note of familiar voices in the general shouting outside.

In the light of the lamps by the door, two dark figures were facing one another, sword and dagger in hand, and around them a number of other people were gathered, though they were keeping their distance. 

At least one elf had come too close to the combatants, and was now holding an arm that was scored with dark blood. He was cursing loudly, which at least suggested that he had not been too badly hurt. 

The fighters were watching one another warily, bitter eyes glinting bright with the last remnants of the light of Valinor.  As Maglor came out of the door, the smaller figure went for the taller, moving so fast she was barely visible. The taller figure intercepted her, despite the weight behind the blade, and managed to slip away sideways.  The crowd leaped back away from him, and someone fell over. 

A dark fury beat from the fighters. The taller elf aimed a savage blow that turned unpredictably and missed his opponent’s ankle by a hair’s breadth, as she moved out of its path with practiced skill. 

The air was full of surprised, angry voices. Very likely none of those watching had seen a battle of elf with elf, still less a battle between two practiced kinslayers. 

Those few who had seen such a thing and lived were standing considerably further back than the rest. 

Maglor stepped between the fighters, hands raised, as Elrond and Elros reached the door, with their dinner guests close behind.  

“Carnil, Telutan,” he said. “Is this the place and time, I ask you?” 

Carnil, with obvious reluctance, let the point of her sword drop. Telutan did not, and Maglor turned to face him directly.  Halfdan began to move forward, but Elros stopped him. 

“I will not be named traitor,” Telutan said, after a long, cold pause when Maglor considered his chances, unarmed. 

“And I am not calling you one,” Maglor answered. “Come on, Telutan. If you were going to kill her, you’ve had more than enough chances by now.”

“I could kill him,” Carnil muttered, rather louder than was necessary. 

“Both of you should be flung into the sea!” the injured elf exclaimed.  Maglor gave him a look that made him step backwards. 

“Enough of this!” Elrond called out, addressing the crowd.  “On your way, please, all of you!” He gestured, and reluctantly the bystanders began to move off, as Elros moved to the side of the injured elf. 

“Whatever this is about, it doesn’t need swords,” Maglor said. “Particularly between two old friends.  Carnil, what is happening here?”

“He’s abandoning us,” Carnil said angrily. “After all those years and all our wars!”

“It’s time for peace,” Telutan replied, though he looked entirely unpeaceful. His voice was trembling. “When Fëanor fell, I kept faith with Caranthir. Then I followed Maedhros. The Havens.” He took a long dragging breath. “I should have turned my coat there.”

“Rather late to realise that now, is it not?” Maglor suggested. 

Telutan laughed, and the laugh was almost a sob. “So I told myself. Oh, many times. But then Maedhros walked away without a word.  Without a word. Damn the pair of you to the iron hells.” 

The thought was too much for him, and he threw the dagger, blade flashing in the lamplight. the aim of his shaking hand was poor.  Maglor dodged, and Carnil, showing off somewhat, put out a hand and snatched it glittering from the air. 

Elrond made half a step forward, but Maglor lifted a hand, and he stopped. 

“Another kinslaying is not an answer,” Maglor said with emphasis. Was that too harsh? He wanted Telutan to be his usual calm considered self again, but he did not want to make it an order. 

Telutan would obey if Maglor ordered him. He had sealed his allegiance to the House of Fëanor with more than enough death to be sure of that. But this was the new age: Telutan must choose freely, if there was any hope that either he or Maglor would not be chained forever to their past. 

“I’ve sworn to Celebrimbor,” Telutan told him flatly, moving the sword to point directly at Maglor.  “I wish I’d done it years ago. Before the Havens.”

“A reasonable decision,” Maglor said.  “Carnil, you can’t blame him for that. But Telutan, I don’t think Celebrimbor will be well pleased if you slaughter Carnil.”

“Or Maglor,” Elrond added. “Telutan, shall I fetch my cousin Celebrimbor?”

Telutan, clearly, had a vision of how Celebrimbor might react to the current situation.  He finally let the sword-point drop, and then, decisively, sheathed it. “No. I shall slay no more of my kin. Not even if they insist on clinging on to the allegiance of a lord who certainly does not deserve them.”

“Telutan,” Maglor said unhappily, trying to find plain words that would explain, rather than words of power to bind or loose. “It’s been a long evil road we’ve walked together, those few of us that are left. And I left you on that road. I am sorry.”

He could see in Telutan’s eyes the weary grief: a litany of choices he could have made differently, all wearing Maglor’s face.  

Telutan had not been one of Maedhros’s people, except by ill luck. He might have been travelling and drawing maps still beyond the sea, if it had not been that his house had lain a day’s walk east of Tirion, and so he had joined the march of the Noldor at the forefront, and found himself fighting on the quays of Alqualondë close-by Fëanor himself.  

No. That was making excuses. Telutan had chosen then, too. 

Maglor did not know how many of Telutan’s friends and apprentices had followed him to war. Whether they had all left with him and died in the grim chances of the long years, or whether, somewhere far West across the waves, someone was still carrying goods from Tirion to Alqualondë, and keeping their records in what had been once the House of Telutan, and looking down from its bright windows over the Strand of Ilmarin. 

“I thought,” Telutan said, with exaggerated precision. “I thought that I could go my own way, at last. But I can’t. Nor can Carnil, nor you, my lord. Too many deaths hold us together, whether we will or no.”

He looked down at the sword-hilt on his belt and the weary self-loathing on his face, could have been Maedhros himself, or Maglor, if Maglor had not had Elrond’s orders to do better.

“I can,” Carnil said, her voice full of passion. “I can do as I wish. I can change my path. And I chose to stay with Maglor, who was my friend in Tirion. If Maglor can choose to be one of the Moriquendi, then so can I, without shame.”

“But Telutan can choose otherwise,” Maglor said. “He can go with Celebrimbor, or with Elrond, or Gil-galad himself. It won't be easy, for them, or you, but none of us have made easy choices. As it happens, Telutan, we have just been speaking of Halfdan’s son, Hundor. He has chosen to have no lord at all, but to go east, with some others of the Edain, to find their own place in the world. It’s his risk to take.”

“If you wish to go home,” Elrond said to Telutan, gently, “I can send a letter across the sea, to the High King of the Noldor in the West. He may be able to allow it, if we ask.  They have set up a place on Tol Eressëa where some of Caranthir’s people are living now.”

Telutan shook his head, though he looked now more dazed than angry, as if the smoke of war around him was finally blowing away, and he could at last look out and see the Sea. 

Elros, looking around from where he was putting a neat bandage around the injured elf’s forearm, said: “Gil-galad has declared that those who came under the Enemy’s hand shall be treated with forbearance and understanding.”  The elf with the injured arm puffed out his breath and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. 

“I think perhaps some miruvor,” Elrond suggested.  “Telutan, would you mind if I took that sword?  I think Gildor here would be happier if I put it away for a little while.”