Origins - Ch. 2
~ Ch. 2 ~
*Gondolin*
Laiquelasse, who was now known as Etya, was in the rear guard, helping many to escape. He saw his beloved brother, Glorfindel, fall at the Cristhorn. After seeing Idril and Tuor and their son settled at Arvernien, he left and journeyed to Doriath.
In Doriath, he wed Meren, a Silvan woman whose fathers (or so it was rumored) had been blessed by the Valar. Laiquelasse and Meren were quite happy with each other and when their son Oropher was born, they felt that their life’s happiness was complete.
Oropher grew quickly and when he was of age, he went with his father to help guard the forest’s borders now that Feanorians had come to Middle Earth. Galion, Oropher’s cousin and closest confidant, often shared the same patrols and other duties and there were times that Laiquelasse felt he had two sons instead of one.
*
It was clear to all that Lúthien and Beren were growing old, and now Dior had requested a private interview with Laiquelasse, who found he was curious to know why.
“Etya?”
“Yes, my prince.” Laiquelasse bowed his head as he stood before the cluttered desk. “What is it you wish?”
“It has come to my attention that you are one of our finest warriors.” Dior was known for coming straight to the point. “I would like you to leave the border patrols and take up new duties.”
“What sort of duties would they be, your highness?”
“As you know, my lady wife is expecting our firstborn.” Dior looked closely at the older elf. “I wish you to head up our personal guard.”
“I do not understand - you have no need of such here.”
“My mother is getting older, Captain.” Dior decided that he had to speak frankly; in any case, it was hardly news. “Soon she and my father will leave on their Great Journey.”
Laiquelasse nodded and waited for him to continue.
“She intends for me to inherit the Jewel, for she cannot take it with her.” Dior rose and began to pace around the room. “And when that happens, the Feanorians will expect me to return it.”
“I see.” Personally Laiquelasse thought that was an excellent idea. He had known of the Jewels since he had been a child growing up in Valinor, but he had never trusted how they seemed to enthrall those who possessed them for any length of time. Fëanor claimed they were his greatest creation, but Laiquelasse thought that was hardly true; surely such a distinction should go to Fëanor’s sons. In any case, they were stolen property. Laiquelasse had studied enough law with his father to know that stolen property remained the property of the original owner - unless the original owner should choose to gift it to the one who returned it to them.
“I cannot give it back to them,” Dior said in a tight voice. “It cost my father his life once; now it will take both of my parents from me.”
“You know that the Sons of Fëanor will never give up their attempt to recover it from you, or the others that remain lost.” Laiquelasse stated calmly. “They will ask for it back at the very least, but I think it is more likely that they will come for it in person.”
“I know.” Dior’s countenance was haunted. “And yet, I feel that our fates have already been written - that no matter what I do, it will not matter. Time is running out all too soon. Will you help found my family’s personal guard?”
“It will be an honor, my prince.”
“Thank you, Etya. My mind is more at ease now. How soon can you start?”
“I have just finished my rotation at the borders,” Laiquelasse replied. “I was scheduled for a week’s leave but if you need me now…”
“No, no that is fine.” Dior waved his concerns away. “Enjoy your leave - in fact, take two weeks leave. Enjoy your time with your family.”
“Very well.” Laiquelasse bowed once more. “If there is anything else, my prince?”
“You may go.” Dior returned to his desk and sat down. “I will see you in two weeks.”
*
Once Laiquelasse left the prince’s office, he hurried home to tell Meren the news. She smiled with relief but there was a faint line of worry in her eyes.
“I had hoped you would be able to guide Oropher through his first year at the border. But this is important as well.”
“I know it is,” he told her as he held her in his arms and nuzzled her soft light hair. “Perhaps now we can think of adding to our family as well, eh?”
“Perhaps,” she replied with a saucy smile. “Oropher is at training camp with Galion for the next two weeks, so we have a rare opportunity to have complete privacy.”
“So we do,” laughed Laiquelasse. “So we do.”
*
A year after Laiquelasse began his new guard duties, Nimloth gave birth to a daughter, Elwing. Luthien was pleased to spend her remaining days with her granddaughter and Beren was just as proud, though Laiquelasse imagined that the Man was slowing down more rapidly than any cared to admit.
And so it proved. Two years after Elwing’s birth, Dior took the throne as king - and with it, the Jewel as proof of his right to rule and as his inheritance.
Before long, the news reached the Feanorians and as expected, several letters arrived from Maedhros Feanorian asking in polite but unsubtle words for the return of the Jewel.
*
~“A Silmaril of Fëanor burns again in the woods of Doriath”~
Maedhros looked up from his maps and frowned. He could hear the shouting quite clearly; Maglor was angry with the “Terrible Three”, as the bard was wont to call his middle brothers. It was times like this that Maedhros regretted the reputation they had acquired. He remembered happier times, when the world seemed so much kinder and gentler.
Celegorm had been highly favored by Oromë and thought of the Vala as an honorary uncle while quiet Caranthir gave indications of being a writer or a poet, maybe even an artist. He was often seen busily writing in a journal, only to slam the book shut if any happened to even glance in his direction and snapping at any questions about what he was doing (for to ask Caranthir any question, no matter how innocuous, was construed as an invasion of his privacy.) Curufin, of course, had been the one to inherit the largest share of their father’s talent as a smith and inventor both. The twins had still been children, and there was no way of knowing what path they might have chosen. So much wasted talent, so many lives devastated…
“Maedhros, you must do something!” Maglor roughly pushed the tent flap open, his quiet entrance indicating his temper. “This cannot go on.”
“What must I do, Maglor?” Maedhros asked tiredly. “What is it now?”
“The Brothers captured a young ellon two days ago, and they have been interrogating him ever since. You must put a stop to it.”
“If he was foolish enough to be captured, then he must deal with the consequences.” Maedhros did not want to interfere with his middle brothers unless he absolutely had to. He still held a faint hope that Dior would return the Silmaril to them but in his heart, he feared the worst.
“Nelya.” Maglor ground out the word. “Their captive is very young; in fact, I am not sure that he is even of age. Further, I believe he is of the Avari. What more trouble will you let the Brothers bring to us?”
“Since you have chosen not to question him...” Maedhros sighed, paused for a moment and looked sharply at Maglor. He knew little of the Avari but this youngster might have valuable knowledge of the land. By rights, it was Maglor who should do such work. Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin were good warriors but they were not the best or wisest choice to extract information from a prisoner. Maglor said nothing but refused to drop his gaze. “Very well. Bring him to me.”
“Yes, Brother.” Maglor stepped out of the tent and returned within moments, pulling the captive by one arm. Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin crowded in as well, all speaking at the top of their voices. The young man was silent due to a rough wooden bit between his teeth (Celegorm's work, no doubt) but his blue-grey eyes were calmer than Maedhros had expected.
“Brother, we were not finished with him,” Celegorm snapped angrily. “He is my prisoner. I am the one who caught him, so he is mine. He will not answer my questions.”
“I do not see how you expect him to answer with that bit in his mouth,” Maedhros remarked drily. “Further, I am the eldest son of our sire; therefore it is you who are under my authority - and any other captives you might happen to 'acquire' in the future. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Maedhros.” Celegorm’s voice was sulky but he still dropped his head in acquiescence and his brothers followed his lead. “I apologize, Brother.”
“Very well. You three may leave now.” Maedhros knew better than to let another discussion get started. “Maglor, you will guard the door.”
“Yes, brother.” Maglor bowed slightly and turned to usher his younger brothers out. They went slowly, clearly unhappy with this turn of events.
Maedhros turned his full attention to the young elf. With deep blond hair and blue-grey eyes, the youth looked as if he could be part Vanyar but it was far more likely he was Sindar or perhaps Silvan.
“Do you understand me, pen neth?” He spoke quietly, not wishing to startle the younger elf. The blond head nodded briefly. “I am going to remove the gag first, and then I will untie you. I hope you are not foolish enough to try and run - or fight. You won't, will you?”
Another quick shake of the head and Maedhros slowly untied the rope that held the wooden bit in place. The captive gasped slightly and began to move his jaw to ease the ache in it. The ropes fell away next, and the young elf began to rub at his wrists.
“What is your name, young one?”
The youngster stared at him, and it seemed to Maedhros that he was trying to grasp the strange accent.
“My name is Maedhros Feanorion. Who are you?”
“Perhaps he would like a drink first.” Maglor handed the youth a skin of water but the blond elf merely glared at him and handed it back without a word.
“He does not trust us. Fair enough, I doubt I would trust us either if I were in his place.”
“You are right, Maitimo Nelyafinwë. I do not trust you.” The young man spoke with a distinct Vanyarin accent and he turned to look at Maglor. “Nor do I trust you, Makalaurë Kanafinwë. But I trust *them* not at all, so it seems I must trust you for now.”
“Who are you that you speak Quenya and know our family names?” Maglor cried out. “I know that you did not follow my father.”
“Yes, I would like to know this very much.” Maedhros said, staring down at the slender youth. “Who are you that you have the look of the Avari and yet appear to be of Aman? I do not remember you among my uncle’s people.”
“I but recently left there to search for my brother,” he said. “My name is Etya.”
“Exiled. That is but half a name,” Maglor mused. “What is the rest of it?”
“It is my new name.” Etya replied. “When I left home, I knew that I would be exiled from all I knew despite the fact I did not take part in the Oath.”
“That is hardly news, nor does it answer my question?” Maedhros paused and looked carefully at the blond elf. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face, but Maedhros was at a loss to place him. “You look very familiar. Do we know your family?”
“I am sure of that,” Etya replied acidly. “I came to seek my brother but I was too late. He is gone now.”
“But who was he?” Maedhros gritted his teeth. He was getting frustrated by all of the repeated non-answers to their questions. “Did we know him?”
“I told you - he is gone. It is forbidden to speak his name; it will disturb his rest in Mandos.” Etya sighed in exasperation.
The two brother shared a puzzled glance, for that was a distinctly Vanyarin belief; yet the elf’s hair was not the typical gold of the Vanyar, but appeared to be several shades lighter.
“And yes, I imagine you knew him at one time since he crossed the Helcaraxë with Fingolfin’s host, *Prince*.”
“I see.” Maedhros turned briefly to Maglor. “Will you leave us? I wish to speak privately with
him.”
“Of course.” Maglor quickly left the tent and Maedhros turned back to the erstwhile captive.
“Sit,” he told the younger elf. “If I am not mistaken, my brother will return with food and drink before long and I have many questions.”
“I cannot answer your questions, Prince.”
“You call me by that even now?” Maedhros’ mouth quirked up in a brief smile.
“It is still who you are, even if you do not see yourself as such.”
“And you know so much about me?”
This time it was the younger elf who smiled briefly.
“I remember what I was told by my mother and father - that the eldest son of Fëanáro was the first of many princes to be born.”
“That is hardly news,” Maedhros snorted. “Will you tell me anything about yourself?”
“You already know all that I have to tell.”
“Oh well played.” Maedhros laughed, a genuine laugh, at that. His entire face lightened for a moment and Laiquelasse saw the elf he had once been, before the Darkening and the Exile. “You remind me of one of my old law professors. He was the most skilled at answering questions with non-answers, or another question of any ellon I knew.”
“Indeed.” Laiquelasse smiled slightly; for he had often heard his father and mother speak of happier days, before the Darkening and his father had often praised the political acumen shown by the eldest son of Fëanáro.
Maedhros spent several more minutes asking questions but Laiquelasse refused to answer anything except in the most general, well-known terms. There was a sudden knock at the tent and Maglor entered with a covered tray of food and drink.
Despite all of his resolutions to the contrary, Laiquelasse found himself breaking bread with the eldest Feanorian brothers.
“Will you carry a message for me?”
“Perhaps.” The words were spoken grudgingly. “What sort of message?”
“Will you ask Dior once more if he will not see reason, and surrender the Jewel?”
“I will carry your message,” Etya finally replied. “But you cannot really think he will agree now.”
“It is worth one last try,” Maedhros said sadly. “I would greatly prefer to have peace; this hostility only lends strength to the Enemy and weakens our peoples.”
“You speak wisely now,” the younger elf said at last. “But I am afraid that it will do you no good.”
“Come with me then.” Maedhros rose from his chair before pulling his cloak over his shoulders. “I will see your things are returned to you, and then I will walk you out.”
Maedhros walked slowly beside the other elf as they crossed the muddy ground to the main supply tent.
“Clerk! Come here at once!” Maedhros kept his voice steady but it rang out nonetheless.
“Yes, my lord, at once!” The young supply clerk must have been very new, for he nearly fell over the desk in an attempt to greet Maedhros properly. “What is it you wish, my lord?”
“Give him his belongings.” Maedhros said to the hapless clerk, indicating the elf standing beside him. “Quickly now; I do not have all day.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course.” The clerk hurriedly gathered Etya’s things from a wicker box stored on the roughly-made shelves and placed them on the counter in front of him. “This is everything, I believe, my lord.”
Etya took his time examining everything, finally satisfied that no harm had come to his weapons and that all personal items had been completely returned to him. He looked up at Maedhros and finally said it was acceptable. After re-arming himself, he nodded briefly to Maedhros.
“I am ready to go now.”
“Very well.” Maedhros nodded briefly to the clerk, who bowed deeply to him. “You did a good job, Clerk. I appreciate having people who know how to organize things. Come to my tent later today; I wish to speak with you alone.”
“Thank you, my lord. Thank you.” The hapless clerk still seemed stunned at the appearance of the eldest prince with the former captive, and everything else that had just happened. Technically he owed his job and loyalty to the house of Caranthir but he also knew that anything Prince Maedhros might request took automatic precedence over any other orders.
*
“You let him go? Just like that?” Celegorm complained long and loud and bitterly. “I could have gotten him to talk.”
“You had your chance and he did not talk, did he?” Maedhros snapped. “Now be still. I wish to hear no more from you.”
“But he will go straight to Dior!”
“I am hoping he does,” Maedhros replied through gritted teeth. “For I sent him with a message for the king, asking him once more for the Silmaril.”
“He will never do it,” Caranthir muttered, shaking his head. “Dior is mad, like his grandfather - he is possessed by the Jewel.”
“I have to try.” Maedhros rubbed at his forehead and dropped his gaze. Ever since his rescue by Fingon, he had been plagued with severe headaches. “I, for one, am sick of all this fighting. What has it gained us? Nothing but more death and despair. We are still no closer to fulfilling the Oath than we were at the beginning.”
“One is within our grasp,” Curufin argued.
“And two remain out of it,” Maedhros growled back. “Or had you forgotten? Now all of you leave me - I wish to rest.”
“Yes, Brother.” The others filed out but Maglor stayed behind for a moment, his grey eyes worried as they studied his eldest brother’s thin, pinched face.
“Do you wish me to play for you? Or perhaps a song?”
“Another time, Maglor.” Maedhros smiled tiredly at the one who was closest to him not only in age but in spirit. “The day has been overlong, and you need your rest too.”
“If you’re sure then.” Maglor hesitated again at the door of the tent. “To play or sing for you often relaxes me as well you know.”
“I know, but go on. I will be fine.” Maedhros watched as his brother headed for a distant watch fire, something he often did when he was too troubled to return directly to his tent. Maedhros envied Maglor this small freedom, something he could never indulge in without his brothers fretting over anything that might be construed as a new sign of his former captivity. Securing the tent flap, Maedhros turned and blew out the candle before he stripped and lay down on the rough camp cot, trying to find a comfortable spot. He didn’t expect to sleep well in any case though for there was far too much that troubled his mind.
That night, Maedhros was troubled by dark, unsettling dreams. He kept thinking that he was back in Valinor at Glorfindel’s home. He kept walking through the maze, trying to find someone. Glorfindel, perhaps? But even he knew that Glorfindel had fallen at the Cristhorn, his body retrieved by none other than Thorondor and he was surely now resting in Mandos’ Halls. (Maglor had sung the ‘Fall of Gondolin’ once, and only once, refusing to sing it ever again.) Each time as he neared the fountain, he saw a slender shape through the mist, and each time the person was careful to remain hidden from his gaze.
“Who are you? Tell me please.” He kept asking but there was no answer, only the sound of the falling water.
But at last he tired of the game and sat down on the nearest bench to rest. He looked at the design and saw it was unchanged from the time he had been there. The other person studied him for a time, and then moved slightly closer. Maedhros remained still and when he did not rise to pursue them again, a soft voice said: “He is not here.”
“Who?”
“The one you seek.”
“But I already know about -”
“You know naught, Prince. Go now.”
Maedhros woke up then, shaking despite the warm blanket. He looked around, half-way expecting find that he truly was back in Valinor, in the quiet garden maze beside the fountain and that everything else that had happened since then was the dream. Sighing, he struggled to sit up and wondered if he should rise anyway. He doubted if he’d get much sleep now. But it was still the deepest part of the night, and at last he decided to take one of the many sleeping draughts Maglor insisted on keeping at his bedside.
Sitting up for a moment, Maedhros drank the bitter-tasting potion down, frowning slightly at the peculiar smell. No food or drink had tasted right to him since his rescue but it seemed that anything medicinal was the worst of all. Maedhros lay back down and tried to make himself comfortable on the hard camp cot. He was bound to obey his father’s dying wish and the cursed Oath as were his brothers but at least his son lived on in safety in Valinor. It was slim consolation to him now but it was much better than nothing. This time when Maedhros fell asleep, he did not dream.
~*~