First Age, 552

Maglor

During the last weeks, I feel as if the days are growing darker despite the lengthening hours of the spring. There is no joy left in the sunlight. The very air seems full of menace. I try to remain calm and to hide my fear, but Maedhros is not deceived. He thinks that I am concerned for the twins in their absence and attempts to reassure me. I nod and pretend to agree, but it is not the safety of Elrond and Elros that worries me. I do not doubt their skill and courage; there has been surprisingly little movement of the enemies recently, and somehow it seems to me that, were they in danger, I would know that. They are safe. Still, a sense of dread weighs heavily on my heart.

Since this morning, this disquiet has become almost unbearable. Since the arrival of the messenger, who is now closeted with my brother. They have been speaking for hours already, and I am pacing back and forth in the hallway, measuring it with restless steps again and again. Twenty steps in length, five steps in width. Twenty and five. Again and again.

At length the door opens, and I turn with a start. The messenger steps over the threshold and greets me. His garment is weather-stained and his face weary, yet in his eyes there is excitement. Excitement… and something else. He leaves, and I approach the door, confused. Is it hope I saw in his gaze? What is there to hope for? I still feel only dread.

I enter. Maedhros stands by the window, a sharp outline against the light, silent and motionless. He does not turn at the sound of the door, and my footsteps that should be sure and determined, falter.

I reach the window and stand beside him. His face is without any expression, like chiselled from stone by a gifted, yet heartless sculptor who has failed to endow his creation with any feelings. It is so quiet that I hear our breath echoing in the stillness of the room.

“Evil news, brother?” I break the silence at last, when I can do so with surety that my voice will not fail me.

“There are tidings of war in Angband.”

I stare at him, puzzled. He must be mistaken.

“In Angband? Surely you want to say that Angband is the one to make war?”

“No. Angband is besieged.” His face is still expressionless.

“By… whom?” I whisper, but even as I ask, I already know the answer. Now I understand the glimmer of hope in messenger’s eyes. Yet I am still almost unable to believe that, after centuries of fruitless victories and bitter defeats, Endor may be at last delivered from evil. Hope stirs in my heart too, for now but a tiny flicker, a weak and tender sprout. “Who is there?” I ask again, my voice trembling a little.

“The Valar and the Maiar. King Ingwë and the Vanyar. And our uncle with the Noldor who remained in Aman.”

“Are we summoned to aid in battle?”

“No. We are expected to remain here.” Maedhros frowns. The indifferent mask falls away, and I see that he is offended and angered by this order. But then he pushes his irritation aside. “It is a very great host. They need not our aid. A handful of warriors will not turn the tide of that battle.”

“Maybe it is as it should be,” I say quietly. “We have fought and bled enough. To no avail. The Lords of the West have much greater power.”

“Yes. The battle may be long, but, in the end, they will prevail.” Maedhros looks at me closely, and now there is something else in his eyes. Regret…? Pain…? I am slow to understand. He speaks on. “In the end, they will prevail. They will throw Morgoth down. They will retrieve his iron crown.”

And then the full meaning of the news hits me like an avalanche.

“The Silmarils!” My voice is strangled, my hands are gripping the windowsill. “They will be in Morgoth’s hold no longer!”

But this thought is not the reason for the anguish in my brother’s eyes. At his next words, the faint spark of hope in my heart is blown out; the tiny sprout is bitten dead by the frost.

“We must send away Elrond and Elros. To Círdan. It is time.”

My lips move soundlessly for a while ere I find my voice, and even then, it is a mere whisper at first. “No.”

“It has to be done, Maglor. We both knew that this day would come. We decided on this course long ago. In the light of these tidings, they must depart. The north will grow even more perilous. And…”

He falls silent, but I know his unspoken words. The Oath will awaken again. Still, these reasons fail to convince me, and the pity in my brother’s eyes and voice fails to soothe me.

“No!” I am nearly screaming now; grief is raging in my heart, grief mingled with anger. “We cannot do that! You have no right to decide for them! No!”

Even as I speak, I know that he has both the right and the cause to do as he has decided. As we both decided years ago. But I still rebel against this decision. Pacing back and forth, I frantically offer one excuse after another why the boys should remain in Himring, and every next one is weaker and more futile than the one before.

Then I can think of no more justifications. I have no more words. There is only raw pain clawing at my heart, and after a while I break under the strain of it. While I argue, Maedhros watches me in silence, but when tears spring to my eyes, he comes to me and embraces me. I fight against him, attempting to push him away, but he is strong, he holds me tightly, and then I collapse against his chest and weep without restraint. He speaks to me quietly, gently, his hand strokes my hair, and I hold on to him seeking support, but plainly realizing that the lifeline that has tied us to whatever good is left in this world, will be severed in a few days. It will be severed by our own hands.