Note: Written for the ALEC Endings contest.

Many thanks to Fiondil and Istarnië for the beta.

For Istarnië with whom this was supposed to be a joint writing venture. She let me write it all, so I dedicate it to her. Enjoy!

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Let the end try the man. -- William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2  

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Arafinwë 

It was not supposed to end this way.

For more than five hundred years I labored, spending my pride, my sweat, my tears, and my blood to right the many wrongs of my kin. I have been on my knees before the surviving members of Olwë’s court, begging forgiveness for the unspeakable acts my brothers and their followers committed against the Teleri. I have lain prostrate before the Valar, pleading for mercy and pardon for myself and for those who turned back with me. I have taken a crown and shouldered mighty responsibilities which were never intended to be mine. I have ruled the forsaken remnant of a once proud people, rebuilt a broken society, and led an army in war.

These actions were of my own choosing. The repercussions were mine to bear. But as I wrathfully march through this camp now, surrounded by warriors of the Noldor and the Vanyar — the survivors of the mighty army of light from Valinor — I know my people and I have paid our debts to those wronged by the Noldor. By our blood, we redeemed our nobility, proved our faith in the Valar, and renewed our right to a sense of pride in who we are once again.

The news I have just received angers me beyond the ability to speak. Clenching my mail-clad fists, I long to strike those who wrought this latest evil upon us. I want to tear them limb from limb. They remind me so much of my fey, prideful brother that I desire nothing more than to deal back to them all that their dead atar has cost me in my life — has cost my family and my people since my atar married my amillë.

My wisdom tells me that the sons bear no guilt for the actions of the atar. I struggle to restrain my thoughts of vengeance, but every report I have heard of the sons tells me that their heinous crimes far exceed all that their atar ever did. And now they have done this.

Coming upon Eonwë’s tent, I gaze with revulsion on the bloody corpses of Ingil’s guard. Two ragged néri stand back to back, swords dripping the precious blood of the Vanyarin warriors they slew, Elves of my amillë’s folk. The brethren dressed as Noldorin warriors defile the uniforms they stole from néri of my atar’s folk whom they slew in order to sneak into our camp undetected.

These creatures are no longer princes of the Noldor. We are not followers of theirs.

I will no longer atone for the sins of my kin. I am done with apologizing for the actions of those who in their folly have forsaken all wisdom.

Prince Ingil looks to consult with me on this judgment we must pass. Mayhap he will find some shred of mercy within himself in doling out the punishment on these two murders. I know I will show none.

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Ingil 

It was not supposed to end this way.

For many years of the sun we fought this war. How long have we struggled here? Twenty-five years or a thousand? I no longer know nor care for the days all bleed together with the flowing of time and the blood of my people, my friends, my kin. By our long spears, bright swords, and stinging arrows, we sought to bring Moringotto’sdefeat. And we did.

The Valar smote the earth and gutted Angamando bringing forth and binding that most vile creature whose treachery cast Valinor into darkness and our cities into chaos. It should have ended with the chaining of Moringotto and the recapture of the Silmarils. I would that it had ended before the death of Finwë for then Fëanáro would not have sworn his oath and the Teleri would not have been slain and the curse would not have been spoken. And we would not stand here now in Endorë.

The sight before my eyes fills me with such disgust, I must look away in shock and revulsion. It is not that I can no longer bear the heart-rending images of the bloody guards lying dead about the tent. I have seen and dealt death too many times since coming to this war. I can no longer stand to look upon the grim and insanely hopeless faces of their slayers.

I remember these faces from the time of peace in the Day before Days when we would meet at festival upon the slopes of Taniquetil. I recall the King of the Noldor proudly rejoicing in the sons of his most beloved son and the pride of the folk of Tirion at the births of so many beloved sons into the line of Finwë.

But what pride is in the Noldor now at the sight of these faces?

How many Elves have died on the points of the terrible swords of these sons of Fëanáro, my guard being but the latest? These kinslayers showed no mercy to Elves of any kindred for Moriquendi and Calaquendi alike have fallen to their malice and terrible oath with Vanyarin néri being but the latest called to the slaughter.

The vile brothers now stand back to back in stolen uniforms bearing the badge of the King of the Noldor, each desperately clutching a Silmaril and a sword. It is obvious to me that Maitimo and Macalaurë do not intend to be taken alive. The entire camp, Noldor and Vanyar alike, stand ready to slay them. Do I spend the lives of more of my soldiers to bring them down?

Do I command these princes’ deaths or order them set in chains for trial in Valinor? Should King Arafinwë stand in judgment of them for they are Noldor and of his kin? Or does that burden fall to me as heir of the High King of all the Elves, for these néri have transgressed against every Elf in Arda?

My heart is so hot within me now that slaying the brethren by sword, arrow, or spear would be too quick an atonement for the sins of princes who have fallen so far from the grace of the noblest Noldorin house. But I am not like them nor would I stoop to be like them! I cannot order the torture of fellow Elves, nor do I wish to sentence their deaths.

Would that my atar were here to decide their fates! But, I would not wish this burden to fall upon his shoulders. He has endured too much since Moringotto first spread his lies in Aman, planting the seeds which ultimately bore fruit in the evil deeds of this hour.

I watch Arafinwë approach me with a terrible light in his eyes, fiery anger burning in his face. We will judge this together.

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Maedhros

It was not supposed to end this way.

Atar made the Silmarils and now the greatest and most precious works of his hands are ours. We are his sons so by right they are ours! Ours for the taking by any means possible! And take we have — taken ships, taken lives, and now taken our birthright as heirs of the great Fëanáro!

Atar would be so proud of us, for we have finally accomplished what he set out to do all those years ago when he so gloriously led our people from Aman to Endorë. In spite of the Teleri, in spite of the Valar, in spite of crashing waves on ships we could barely steer, in spite of the balrog which took our atar’s life, we held our course. In spite of Beren, in spite of Dior’s foolishness in Doriath, in spite of the Sindar, in spite of the folk of Sirion, in spite of Elwing and her idiocy in throwing herself into the sea to keep a Silmaril from us. In spite of Melkor himself who stole the Silmarils and slew our beloved king and anatar…in spite of the Noldorin and Vanyarin soldiers who thought that just because they had survived a war they could prevail against us, the mighty sons of Fëanáro! In spite of all…here we stand, my last living brother and I back to back, facing those who wish nothing more than our deaths.

How ironic that we have now come full circle. We started all of this by slaying Elves of Aman and now Elves of Aman shall take our lives. How fitting that they should be the ones to end this.

But I will not go down without a fight. I have fulfilled my oath, at the cost of my atar, at the cost of my right hand, at the cost of five of my beloved little brothers, at the cost of all of my people who were entrusted in my care, at the cost of Dior’s little sons, at the cost of how many other lives whose only crime was that they got in the way of fulfilling my oath, at the cost of my fëa…

I know not whose sword will finally take my life, but I will meet my end knowing I have my atar’s pride, my atar’s love, my atar’s legacy. The first time I beheld the Silmarils, I never would have believed that such small jewels would have cost me so dearly. But I have kept my word and have kept my oath and willingly pay the price of victory.

Gripping my sword confidently in my left hand, I am comforted by its weight, yet the leaden weight of the jewel lying in my pocket burns my side as much as my heart flares within me.

Let this be over soon…

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Maglor

It was not supposed to end this way.

I swore the oath to appease my atar. I followed him out of love and loyalty and the desire to please him. I who was so unlike him. Why did I do this?

What possessed me over these long desperate years to deal death and then lament through verse and song all that I and my people had done?

At his death, atar had to have known that this quest was folly, that our goal — his goal — was unattainable. But then mayhap he foresaw this moment now where my brother and I stand defending our dearly bought possession of atar’s most prized treasure: his jewels.

HIS jewels.

Should we, his sons, not have been his dearest possessions — the dearest things added unto his house?

I loved and cared for Eärendil’s sons as if they were my own in atonement for my countless sins. I would have died for them, and in many ways I did die when I gave them up. What else has died within me since I left Aman? What have I lost? Oh, my precious brothers…what have we lost?

After all of the death we have dealt to our own kind, perhaps it is poetic justice that Maitimo and I, the only surviving sons of Fëanáro will meet our deaths at the point of elven blades. It is a jest too bitter for song. I guess it is just as well that I will not live to be burdened with composing the verses.

The Silmaril burns my hand beyond any fire I have known, just as the oath has burned my fëa. I will fight as long as Maitimo does, for he is all I have left to me. But if my brother falls first, I will surrender my blade.

I am done.

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Eonwë

It was not supposed to end this way.

We fought a common foe, those who left Aman as exiles and those who departed as an army of Light. Yet now the Children fight each other once again. Has enough blood not been spilled that this latest slaughter need not have taken place?

My fëa mourns for those who so needlessly died. Even now, I who have dealt death in war and protected from death, cannot fully comprehend the perversion of conscience and will which so horribly misguided Fëanáro and his sons. My heart bled, tears staining the page, as I recorded the oaths sworn by them. And yet, I, who knew better, who heard all that was sworn in secret and aloud, I held out hope that evil would not prevail. But Moringotto and all he has wrought has prevailed.

I helped tear apart Angamando and bind Moringotto in chains, but his older evil, so long in the careful forging proved a far deadlier menace to the Children than any blade wrought by Elf, Man, or Dwarf. The rumors and lies which turned Fëanáro against Us has culminated in more deaths to elvenkind than any army bred and led by Moringotto and his minions. Children of Alqualondë, Doriath, Sirion and now our base camp have died to feed the wretched oath and blind obsession of Fëanáro and his sons.

How did We fail Fëanáro that he fell so far? Did We not grant him every grace and opportunity, teaching and guiding him in ways and means far beyond that of any other of the Children? What more could We have done? What should We have done?

As I stride though the camp, struggling to keep my anger and my grief at bay, I hope that Maitimo and Macalaurë will surrender, but I know that such hope is foolish. Even from here, I can sense their determination and feel their sickly guilt eating away at what remains of the goodness in their fëar. The warriors surrounding them desire nothing more than slow deaths for these wayward princes of the Noldor. How I wish these last two could have found healing and release before it came to this!

May Eru forgive Us for our failings. May He forgive me for not realizing the danger that the cursed oath still posed to the Children under my command. I pray He guide me in judging the sons of Fëanáro who stand now ready to slay any who waylay them in their escape with the remaining Silmarils.

Drawing my sword, I allow my Light to fill the night, chasing away the Darkness surrounding the thieving Children and the impatient warriors before me. All pause, stricken motionless as I take command of the situation and pronounce the Doom I am bid to speak…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO 

Then all the camp was raised against them, and they {Maedhros and Maglor} prepared to die, defending themselves until the last. But Eonwë would not permit the slaying of the sons of Fëanor, and departing unfought they fled far away.
 
'Of the Voyage of Earendil' -- The Silmarillion

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Terms:

Moringotto – Quenya for Morgoth

Amillë – mother

Atar – father

Anatar - grandfather

Angamando – Angband

fëa/fëar - spirit(s)