A/N: Firstly, thank you to everyone who reviewed! People have such nice things to say... :) This will be the last chapter of this fic, but now it's put me in mind to write something about Elwing and Eärendil. But now I've said that my muse may desert me... Oh dear.
Chapter 3
Swipe. Thrust. Parry. Swordplay comes easily to me, and I need do nothing but deflect his attacks and wait for him to make a mistake. The sons of Fëanor are the greatest swordsmen to walk Middle-Earth, some have said. I do not know whether this is true. We learned our skill as any other young warrior would. The only difference was the teacher.
Despite my weariness, I have the upper hand in the fight. He mis-times a blow, and I suddenly push forward at him hard with my sword. Knocked off-balance, my opponent falls to one knee, his own sword raised above his head in defence. Now I know what I must do. I push him to the ground with one foot, then strike him down with my sword. I catch the look in his eyes as his fëa departs for Mandos, an expression of surprise, of pain, and of anger that he allowed me to defeat him, and above all that, a calm weariness of acceptance, the submission to the summons of Mandos. Then, the light leaves his eyes and he falls back limp, his body lies bleeding on the rocks. You end today, kinsman. The sea roars angrily behind me, walls of foam smashing into the cliffs further down the beach. It is almost as if the tide is angry at me, for twice staining its shores with the blood of my kin.
Wearily I stand, surveying the scene. Their number was few, and they were scantily armed. All lie slain on the shore now. They must have been the last remnant of Eärendil's guard, holding the cliff path to allow a few to escape into the hills beyond. I admire their courage, but it was hopeless to try and hold off the sons of Fëanor. Their red blood is flowing on the shore, marring the ocean, and their souls are in Mandos, waiting for release. I wonder how long it will be until I join them.
I sheath my sword, and raise a hand to my face, shielding my eyes from the lashing whips of rain. The cliffs are steep and impassable as they rise from the flat river delta, with only a few paths made by the Exiles. Although I could reach the clifftops by turning back to the Haven, I had no wish to meet the accusing eyes of my brother, who no doubt still lingers there. I look around for the path, and soon find it. A steep, rutted track winding up the cliff. This would be my road. Here I could perhaps have a better view over the ruined land, to look for a bright jewel in the hand of an Elf-woman. Why did we not capture her? I curse the wife of Eärendil silently as I pick my way up the path, for she is the only one who could possibly hold the Jewel now. I find the climb unusually hard. I am weary from the battle, and blood is still leaking from a wound on my shoulder I sustained during the fight, but there seems to be a tiredness upon me that runs deeper. A weariness of Beleriand, perhaps? I force my gaze away from the Western sea, which is mocking me. The Prophecy of the North rings in my ears, over and over again, until I want to scream and fling myself into the water. The bloodstained tide swells.
Or even a weariness of life?
Struggling, I grasp the roots of a stunted tree and drag myself over the cliff face. It is such a great effort that all I can do is collapse onto the grass of the clifftop. For a short time, I lay there, listening to the wailing of the wind and the beating of my heart.
"Maedhros?"
I turn cold at the voice, for it is not one I recognise, but I know exactly who it is. I force my gaze upward, and clad in shimmering white, almost like a maiden of the Maiar in distant Valinor, stands a tall Elf-woman, her arms outstretched to the sea, one hand clasped around...
I force myself to my feet, regaining my commanding tone of voice that I used to use to command my troops. "Hand over the jewel, Half-Elf."
She shakes her head simply, her bird-like features unreadable.
"No."
"Elwing..." I am at a loss for what to say. She is standing right on the edge of the cliff, perilously close, and she is holding the jewel at arm's length... No hurt could be done to the Silmaril by such a fall, but an Elf such as me would surely be slain on the rocks for leaping after it.
"You have doomed yourself, Maedhros, with your foolish Oath. Do not look to me for salvation, for I have none to give to you, slayer of my kin." She says in her delicate tone. As I watch in horror, she takes a step closer to the edge, and I realise what she intends to do.
"No!" Is that my voice, crying out in anguish, as the vision in white steps calmly over the edge of the cliff, her gown flowing behind her like wings, the Silmaril held aloft like a radiant flame?
Without knowing what I do, I fling myself after her, my thoughts only on grasping the Jewel, of redeeming the oath. Yet my hands grasp at nothing, I am too late, and I am falling, falling to my doom...
"No!"
Whose voice is this?
Strong hands grasp around my chest, and pull me back with great effort, back over the edge of the cliff. My rescuer uses his own weight to pull me back, and he loses his balance under me and we both collapse onto the wet grass, panting and exhausted.
Weakly, I turn my head to behold the face of my rescuer. He lies motionless, his eyes closed, sprawled on the ground. Strands of black hair have worked their way loose from his plait and are whipping up in the wind around his pale face. The right-hand fastening on his tattered cloak had come away completely, leaving it dangling from his left side. He is unarmed and clad simply, but his appearance cries out his heritage. And who could forget the identity of the owner of such a voice?
"Maglor?"
My brother opens his eyes.
"Maedhros."
I catch my breath before I speak again. "How did- what- why did you save me?"
He shakes his head sadly, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "This Jewel is lost to us, brother. It has gone beyond our power to retrieve." And even as he speaks, a white bird rises on great wings, swooping high above the cliffs and into the pale light of the West, the jewel bound at its breast, like a shooting star.
"It is out of our reach." I agree. "But the others? We must still retrieve them."
Maglor closes his eyes again, and turns away from me.
"Yes." he says almost inaudibly. "We must."
The sky is beginning to clear, the rain is ceasing. White-gold shafts of sunlight pour from the broken cloud, illuminating the wings of the bird as it flies into the West, over the calm sea. I take Maglor's hand in mine, and he sits up, his eyes fixed on the pale shimmering mists that lie on the Western shores far away, beyond Elven eyesight. Behind us I hear the whispered conversation of two young children, and feel their suspicious glances. I wonder wearily who they are, and why they do not run like the others. But I do not care. I close my eyes and let the wind sweep my hair back from my face.
"Will it ever end?" he asks at last, sitting up, his eyes still fixed on the far horizon. I shake my head.
"I do not know, Maglor." I say, as the cloud parts and the sun shines brilliantly down on the sea in front of us.
"We both know that's a lie, my brother." He says, but not unkindly. A quiet passes between us.
The sun breaks through the cloud, and the darkness is banished, but for our long shadows cast down across the land from the clifftop.
"I do not know..."
The End
Chapter 3
Swipe. Thrust. Parry. Swordplay comes easily to me, and I need do nothing but deflect his attacks and wait for him to make a mistake. The sons of Fëanor are the greatest swordsmen to walk Middle-Earth, some have said. I do not know whether this is true. We learned our skill as any other young warrior would. The only difference was the teacher.
Despite my weariness, I have the upper hand in the fight. He mis-times a blow, and I suddenly push forward at him hard with my sword. Knocked off-balance, my opponent falls to one knee, his own sword raised above his head in defence. Now I know what I must do. I push him to the ground with one foot, then strike him down with my sword. I catch the look in his eyes as his fëa departs for Mandos, an expression of surprise, of pain, and of anger that he allowed me to defeat him, and above all that, a calm weariness of acceptance, the submission to the summons of Mandos. Then, the light leaves his eyes and he falls back limp, his body lies bleeding on the rocks. You end today, kinsman. The sea roars angrily behind me, walls of foam smashing into the cliffs further down the beach. It is almost as if the tide is angry at me, for twice staining its shores with the blood of my kin.
Wearily I stand, surveying the scene. Their number was few, and they were scantily armed. All lie slain on the shore now. They must have been the last remnant of Eärendil's guard, holding the cliff path to allow a few to escape into the hills beyond. I admire their courage, but it was hopeless to try and hold off the sons of Fëanor. Their red blood is flowing on the shore, marring the ocean, and their souls are in Mandos, waiting for release. I wonder how long it will be until I join them.
I sheath my sword, and raise a hand to my face, shielding my eyes from the lashing whips of rain. The cliffs are steep and impassable as they rise from the flat river delta, with only a few paths made by the Exiles. Although I could reach the clifftops by turning back to the Haven, I had no wish to meet the accusing eyes of my brother, who no doubt still lingers there. I look around for the path, and soon find it. A steep, rutted track winding up the cliff. This would be my road. Here I could perhaps have a better view over the ruined land, to look for a bright jewel in the hand of an Elf-woman. Why did we not capture her? I curse the wife of Eärendil silently as I pick my way up the path, for she is the only one who could possibly hold the Jewel now. I find the climb unusually hard. I am weary from the battle, and blood is still leaking from a wound on my shoulder I sustained during the fight, but there seems to be a tiredness upon me that runs deeper. A weariness of Beleriand, perhaps? I force my gaze away from the Western sea, which is mocking me. The Prophecy of the North rings in my ears, over and over again, until I want to scream and fling myself into the water. The bloodstained tide swells.
Or even a weariness of life?
Struggling, I grasp the roots of a stunted tree and drag myself over the cliff face. It is such a great effort that all I can do is collapse onto the grass of the clifftop. For a short time, I lay there, listening to the wailing of the wind and the beating of my heart.
"Maedhros?"
I turn cold at the voice, for it is not one I recognise, but I know exactly who it is. I force my gaze upward, and clad in shimmering white, almost like a maiden of the Maiar in distant Valinor, stands a tall Elf-woman, her arms outstretched to the sea, one hand clasped around...
I force myself to my feet, regaining my commanding tone of voice that I used to use to command my troops. "Hand over the jewel, Half-Elf."
She shakes her head simply, her bird-like features unreadable.
"No."
"Elwing..." I am at a loss for what to say. She is standing right on the edge of the cliff, perilously close, and she is holding the jewel at arm's length... No hurt could be done to the Silmaril by such a fall, but an Elf such as me would surely be slain on the rocks for leaping after it.
"You have doomed yourself, Maedhros, with your foolish Oath. Do not look to me for salvation, for I have none to give to you, slayer of my kin." She says in her delicate tone. As I watch in horror, she takes a step closer to the edge, and I realise what she intends to do.
"No!" Is that my voice, crying out in anguish, as the vision in white steps calmly over the edge of the cliff, her gown flowing behind her like wings, the Silmaril held aloft like a radiant flame?
Without knowing what I do, I fling myself after her, my thoughts only on grasping the Jewel, of redeeming the oath. Yet my hands grasp at nothing, I am too late, and I am falling, falling to my doom...
"No!"
Whose voice is this?
Strong hands grasp around my chest, and pull me back with great effort, back over the edge of the cliff. My rescuer uses his own weight to pull me back, and he loses his balance under me and we both collapse onto the wet grass, panting and exhausted.
Weakly, I turn my head to behold the face of my rescuer. He lies motionless, his eyes closed, sprawled on the ground. Strands of black hair have worked their way loose from his plait and are whipping up in the wind around his pale face. The right-hand fastening on his tattered cloak had come away completely, leaving it dangling from his left side. He is unarmed and clad simply, but his appearance cries out his heritage. And who could forget the identity of the owner of such a voice?
"Maglor?"
My brother opens his eyes.
"Maedhros."
I catch my breath before I speak again. "How did- what- why did you save me?"
He shakes his head sadly, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "This Jewel is lost to us, brother. It has gone beyond our power to retrieve." And even as he speaks, a white bird rises on great wings, swooping high above the cliffs and into the pale light of the West, the jewel bound at its breast, like a shooting star.
"It is out of our reach." I agree. "But the others? We must still retrieve them."
Maglor closes his eyes again, and turns away from me.
"Yes." he says almost inaudibly. "We must."
The sky is beginning to clear, the rain is ceasing. White-gold shafts of sunlight pour from the broken cloud, illuminating the wings of the bird as it flies into the West, over the calm sea. I take Maglor's hand in mine, and he sits up, his eyes fixed on the pale shimmering mists that lie on the Western shores far away, beyond Elven eyesight. Behind us I hear the whispered conversation of two young children, and feel their suspicious glances. I wonder wearily who they are, and why they do not run like the others. But I do not care. I close my eyes and let the wind sweep my hair back from my face.
"Will it ever end?" he asks at last, sitting up, his eyes still fixed on the far horizon. I shake my head.
"I do not know, Maglor." I say, as the cloud parts and the sun shines brilliantly down on the sea in front of us.
"We both know that's a lie, my brother." He says, but not unkindly. A quiet passes between us.
The sun breaks through the cloud, and the darkness is banished, but for our long shadows cast down across the land from the clifftop.
"I do not know..."
The End