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“Wine, my lord?”

Ingwion son of Ingwë accepted the goblet and gulped down the rich red wine without ceremony, desperate to wash away the taste of the black smoke that still billowed from the wreckage of the Enemy’s fallen fortress. Suffocating clouds of ash had arisen to cover the sky, turning the day as dark as the broken pits of Angband, obliterating the rising of the sun save for some brief, soon forgotten glimpses, of what lay beyond the destruction.

Morgoth, blood dripping sluggishly from his severed ankles, had been dragged away, naked and bound with the chain Angainor. The breaking of Thangorodrim’s mountain fastness had unleashed destruction on a scale unforeseen even by the Valar and plans were already underway for a mass evacuation of the region.

Ingwion had done what he could to bring order out of chaos at the end of a battle he had long since lost all hope of winning. Despite the heady rush of victory, there was still much to do, including the provision of aid for the pitiful refugees coming forth from Angband.

An ever-attentive page refilled his cup but knew better than to offer food.

Ingwion threw the contents down his throat again then tugged in vain with fingers rendered clumsy by exhaustion at the straps and buckles of his armour before surrendering to the eager ministrations of others. A cacophony of sounds from a jubilant war camp washed over him as he slumped gracelessly into a chair, but one voice above all claimed his attention even through the heavy drapes of his tent; a voice that he would know anywhere, roughened by ill-usage but still powerful, one that he had heard many times during the long years of war, always in control, effortlessly enforcing even the most demanding and impossible of commands, contriving to draw Ingwion’s reluctant admiration despite the innocent blood shed over possession of Fëanor’s all-too-prized trinkets.

A guard stepped into the tent, an anxious expression on her usually impassive face. “My lord, Maedhros son of Fëanor requests admittance.”

Ingwion grimaced. He knew perfectly well that requests did not come at all naturally to the eldest son of Fëanor. The former commander of Himring had spent far longer giving orders than making polite requests. “To prevent wear and tear on already overstretched nerves, please tell Lord Maedhros I will see him.”

A heartbeat later, Maedhros sidestepped the startled guard with a knife fighter’s ease and a tavern brawler’s utter disregard for any social graces.

Ingwion didn’t bother to bite back his sigh. “Couldn’t you have at least observed the proprieties and waited to be admitted?”

“No. It’s been a long day and an even longer war, and I am fucking sick of drinking orc-piss poorly disguised as alcohol.”

“Then help yourself to the fruits of the best grape harvest that the green foothills of Taniquitil can offer. There aren’t many bottles left, but I think today merits at least one of them, probably more.” He gestured to the decanter and was pleased to note the lack of any tremor in his hand. “By all means serve yourself. I’m sure my page would much rather join the celebrations than provide wine for you.”

Maedhros’ scarred lips quirked into a crooked grin. “No doubt. And if she gets drunk enough even actual orc-piss will taste palatable.”

“The voice of experience?”

“Yes. In Angband’s pits, we distilled the stinking stuff and drank as much of it as we could get.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, of course I’m not fucking serious. You can’t distil alcohol from piss unless you have enough sugar for fermentation, and that luxury was in short supply in Moringotto’s miserable fortress.” The uneven grin widened fractionally, revealing damaged teeth. “But I’m not saying we didn’t try.” Maedhros poured himself a full goblet of wine from the ostentatiously jewelled flagon, and drank it with considerably more restraint than Ingwion had shown.

“What do you want, Maedhros, or have you come just to irritate me?”

“I intend to lead a small force into what’s left of Angband tomorrow.”

“Are you asking my permission?”

“No.”

“So why come here?”

“To irritate you and drink your excellent wine, why else? Maedhros sprawled out in a chair beside Ingwion and stretched his long, leather-clad legs out in front of the brazier, setting the decanter between them on a small table.

“Why else, indeed?” Ingwion muttered, before giving into temptation and refilling his own goblet.

****

Maedhros pushed his short hair away from his eyes with the stump of his right hand. He had lost yet another prosthetic the previous day and hadn’t bothered to salvage the mangled wreckage of the artificial limb from the jaws of a dead werewolf.

He was bone weary and could barely rouse himself to trade his customary barbs with the Vanyarin commander, but the wine was good, the fire was warm and he had no desire to join the general celebrations, not while there were still slaves tapped in the dark hells beneath the mountains.

Ingwë’s offspring pushed a plate of food towards him with the expression of a man who would vomit over his boots if a piece of meat passed his hips. Close acquaintance with Morgoth’s works tended to provoke that reaction, but Maedhros had long since learned to take food when it was available.

Fifty long years before Morgoth’s fall, Ingwion had arrived on the shores of Beleriand; an untested youth – barely more than five thousand years old, in the new sun reckoning – complete with flowing golden hair, an easy smile and no more idea of how to order an army than a kitten had of how to tally an accounts ledger. Ingwion learned the hard way, as had they all, that on the battlefield respect must first be earned and was not conferred simply by an accident of birth. He also learned that hacking at a practice target with a blunted blade was no substitute for experience gained in combat. The hosts of the Vanyar with their bright armour and colourful banners had come to the shores of Beleriand with noble ideals shackled to hearts and minds blissfully unaware of the horrors that awaited them.

To Ingwion’s credit, he had proved to be a fast learner capable of combining tactical flair with an obvious talent for strategic analysis. And, more importantly, he proved willing to take counsel when offered, even from those he had every reason to despise. He had driven the orcs from Eglarest in one of the first battles of the final war by a combination of reckless determination and sheer good luck but had quickly learnt that not all battles could be won in such a way and he never let his loathing for the actions of Maedhros and his sole surviving brother blind him to the value of their hard-won experience. Despite Eönwë’s obvious disapproval of their inclusion in the councils of the captains, Ingwion had persisted in listening to them, weighing their words and then making his own decisions. Mostly, they proved to be wise decisions. And when that had not been the case, he had learned from his mistakes and had not repeated them,

The golden youth Maedhros had known in Valinor turned inexorably into a capable warrior and an excellent leader, now with almost as much blood on his hands as Maedhros and Maglor, although considerably less of it had come from innocents.

Maedhros respected Ingwion, which is more than he could say for the Valar who had abandoned the elves, men and dwarves of Beleriand and the wide lands beyond the mountains to their fate at the hands of their dark brother and his minions for many long years, stirring only to action when they perceived that Morgoth had grown powerful enough to threaten their hegemony over Aman. Maedhros had no time for the ingenuous claim that they had heeded the pleas of his foster sons’ birth father and the dispossessed young Queen of Sirion who had prized a jewel higher than the lives of her children. The present of a Silmaril had no doubt sweetened the desperate pleas and provided a reminder of the jewels they had long coveted.

“How many do you propose to take with you on your latest suicide mission?” Ingwion asked, careful to keep any hint of challenge out of his voice.

“No more than one hundred. All volunteers, many of them escaped thralls who know the mines and other deep places under the mountains. I have the support of the dwarves. They will be of more use to me underground than most. Eönwë knows that many of Morgoth’s slaves remain there, but he was too busy dragging their former master from his lair and mutilating him to provide much assistance to terrified slaves and all too many were not able to escape unaided.”

“Do I detect a hint of disapproval?”

“Yes, you rightly detect that I fucking despise grand gestures. They never end well, and I have more experience of that than most. Hewing off Morgoth’s feet and dragging him out naked was unnecessary and demeaned the Valar and their servants even further in my eyes. I am sick to my stomach with the many cruelties of war. If you must kill, kill cleanly and do not torment any living thing. Anything less is a dangerous and wanton indulgence.”

Maedhros caught the look of disgust that flashed across Ingwion’s clear blue eyes and knew he had scored a hit. The Vanyarin commander had no taste for cruelty.

“And you do not indulge in such things, Maedhros Bloody-Handed?”

“No, and you know that without needing to ask, Prince Ingwion.”

“Yes, but it was my turn to attempt irritation.”

“Don’t waste your time or mine. I am better at it than you will ever be. Never forget I helped rear six younger brothers and many younger cousins. Trust me, I learnt from the best how to irritate.”

“And I have attempted to do the same,” Ingwion said softly. “So shall we get spectacularly drunk while we try to forget the sights, sounds and smells of today, Lord Maedhros, or is that also a dangerous indulgence?”

****

They both proved surprisingly resistant to drunkenness but did eventually manage to throw enough wine and good apple brandy down their throats to take the edge off memory and pain. Ingwion knew he was more affected by the alcohol than his companion but didn’t care. Maedhros had held him down on the battlefield while a barbed arrow had been cut from his flesh before poison had time to spread. Mild drunkenness was nothing in comparison to the indignity of screaming like a hurt child.

At some point in the evening, a page too young to be anywhere near a war camp brought them more food and Maedhros ordered him to eat. Ingwion reluctantly complied and had to admit he felt better for it. The former Lord of Himring simply nodded and threw more wood on the brazier. For all Maedhros’ faults, he was not one to hammer home a victory once his opponent had conceded. Ingwion fully intended to take that skill and many others he had learned in Beleriand back to Valinor and deploy them in some of the drearier meetings his father usually inflicted on him - although he would have to learn to handle such tribulations without the benefit of sharp implements.

“What in all Angband’s many hells are you thinking of now” The question dropped into the silence like a stone landing on fragile ice.

Ingwion could feel the thin cracks in the veneer of his composure start to widen and he knew he was in danger of falling into the icy grip of memory.

“What in all Angband’s many hells makes you believe I owe you my thoughts?”

“The fact that you are drinking with me and not your jubilant captains. I ask as a friend would – and as one who is sitting close enough to hear the hornets buzzing between your ears.”

Ingwion’s snort of laughter caused apple brandy to make a fiery exit out of his nose. He wiped the mess on a sleeve already stained with blood, mud, sweat and other things he preferred not to think on too closely. “If you must know, I was devising ways to shorten the interminable council meetings of Tirion and the lofty heights of the Holy Mountain.”

“Ways that don’t involve what my foster sons used to call stabby things?”

“Indeed. Your foster sons had an elegant turn of phrase.

Maedhros snorted equally inelegantly. “You have met Elros, haven’t you? No one in their right mind has ever described his turns of phrase as elegant. Both he and Elrond can curse fluently in six different languages and even more dialects. The little sods have been known to cause even the most hardened soldiers to blush. Their father would no doubt be proud of them.”

“Do they give lessons?”

“If you ask them nicely. And given time, I can instruct you in at least four different dialects of orcish. Crude but undoubtedly expressive and the linguistic parallels with Valarin are interesting.”

“If you survive your latest mad escapade, I’ll gladly take instruction.”

“I intend to survive. I have an Oath to fulfil.”

Ingwion turned to meet an expression as hard as adamant. Firelight glinted on the copper waves of Maedhros’ short hair and tree light danced in his steel grey eyes. Maedhros bore his many scars unflinchingly when facing the horror - and sometimes even pity - that his ruined beauty evoked. He also bore scorn and hatred without comment or self-justification, but for all Maedhros’s urbane exterior, Ingwion was in no doubt that Fëanor’s eldest son was a dangerous predator and that whilst the Oath might at times appear to sleep, such times were only a temporary lull in the compulsion that had driven Fëanor’s children to commit atrocities that would forever sully their names.

“Eönwë will not surrender the jewels and you know it.”

Maedhros sighed and reached for the apple spirit to swig it directly from the bottle. “That is a matter for another day, son of Ingwë, do you not agree?” He wiped his mouth with the stump of his right arm and held out the bottle.

Ingwion reached for it and savoured both the warm burn of the alcohol and the strange intimacy of drinking from the same vessel. “That is indeed a matter for another day, son of Fëanor. But when that day comes, I hope we will not meet as enemies.”

“That is my hope also, but I can make no such promises.”

“Then hope must suffice. For now, we will remain friends – if that’s what we are.”

****

“Take these,” Maedhros said, distributing amongst his company commanders the remaining crystal lamps made by his brother Curufin, known to many as Curufin the Crafty – and not just for his skill in the forge.

Some years before his ignominious death, Curufin had finally emulated their father’s workmanship and succeeded in capturing the light of the moon and stars to act as a beacon in the dark places of the world.

“The light will take on a bluish tinge when orcs and other creatures of darkness are nearby. Carry as many torches as possible and, if you value your lives, do not walk anywhere alone. And do not fall prey to the dangerous misapprehension that all former slaves and servants of Moringotto will look on you as their saviours. Some will have been so far ruined in body and mind that they are beyond saving. You will not be able to bring all those you find back to the light. Some will need and indeed welcome a merciful death.”

The elves, Edain and dwarves received his words in silence.

“Any questions?”

One of the healers, a woman who had served Maglor for many years on the plains of Lothlann, caring for horses and riders alike, stepped forward. “The dragon brought half a mountainside or more onto the fortress. How deep do you think we will have to go to reach those left behind when Moringotto was dragged out?”

“Barak’s engineers have already worked through the night to clear our passage to the lower levels. For all his many faults, Moringotto knew how to Sing stone and his slaves and other servants were forced to enact his will or die in the attempt, and many of them were once skilled craftspeople. The upper levels may have been destroyed, but below ground there are countless halls, tunnels, mines and quarries. I toiled there for years but all I am sure of is that they run far and deep. Some will now be unstable. Listen to the stone around you and don’t argue with Barak’s people. If they say run, then run.”

Barak, grandson of his old friend and drinking companion, Azaghâl, Lord of the dwarves of Belegost, stepped forwards, his face blackened by dirt and smeared with blood. “Take as much water as you can easily carry. You will need it. My folk will get you down there and will do their best to prevent that crumbling pile of broken evil becoming your tomb.”

Maedhros nodded his thanks and gave the order to move out.

When word had spread through the camp of their dangerous endeavour, the initial one hundred volunteers had rapidly doubled, and then doubled again. At five hundred, Maedhros had drawn a line in the ash of Anfauglith and said no more. The others he had instructed to remain in readiness. If the lower levels remained stable, their time might well come.

****

The woman looked up at him beseechingly and shook her head.

The pillar had fallen across her thighs, breaking her legs and her pelvis, crushing bone and spilling blood. How she still clunk to life, he could not imagine.

Two of Elros’s men hurried to his side. “The dwarves are bringing lifting gear …”

The woman shook her head again weakly. Even if she still had a tongue, speech would have been beyond her.

“One of you take her hand,” Maedhros commanded.

The elder of the two dropped to his knees beside the woman and took her broken hand gently in his. “Rest, we’ve got you,” he said, in the tones of a man gentling an uneasy horse.

“May Eru welcome and guard you,” Maedhros said softly as he slid a slender blade unerring between her ribs.

The man drew in a shuddering breath and reached up to close her eyes. “Fuck. It doesn’t get easier, does it?”

Maedhros closed his own eyes for a moment and shook his head.

For every slave they found alive, they found countless more dead, dying or too damaged to save. The Edain worked in grim silence for the most part, punctuated at times by bursts of profanity that stretched even Maedhros’s vocabulary. Very occasionally they came across pockets of resistance from orcs, holed up like rats in a trap, and then the searing bursts of violence felt almost cleansing. Killing in a fight was one thing. Slaughtering those they had hoped to bring back to the light was something else entirely.

They were on the lower levels now, close to the infamous breeding pits. The first time Maedhros’s group encountered a pregnant female, still dimly recognisable as an elf, they hesitated, then one of their own women stepped forward, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a knife.

“Take care,” Maedhros warned.

The woman knelt at the side of the chained captive. “What can we do for you?”

“Kill me!” she demanded. “I cannot birth another.”

“We can help you …”

“Help me by ending this … Maybe my fëa can still follow the call … maybe he has ruined me too much for that. I care not. End this for me.” The words no more than a harsh whisper, but the entreaty was plain.

The woman glanced briefly at Maedhros for permission then drove her knife home without hesitation in the killing stroke they had all perfected over a long day of searching – and finding.

The thrall’s distended belly moved of its own – or another’s – volition and the Edain woman let out a gasp of horror.

Maedhros stepped forward and drove his knife into the dead woman’s belly. Her body shuddered one last time and then lay still.

The Edain soldier struggled to her feet and vomited in a corner.

The only comfort Maedhros could offer was a light touch to her shoulder. They had used up their words at least two levels ago.

They forged on through dark wells of despair. Stone corridors devoid of light, devoid of hope, reeking of torment and the stench of blood, shit, piss and rot. They clambered over bloated corpses that burst open under their boots, releasing more foul gases into the rising miasma that threatened to choke the air from their lungs. Even the light of the crystal lamps had dimmed now, barely penetrating the darkness of Morgoth’s tunnels forcing them to rely on their flickering torchlight.

Maedhros lost count of the number of times he had murmured a blessing before easing the path to the Halls or granting Eru’s Gift. The worst was the orc younglings, scrambling away from the bright blades into dark corners to wait, trembling. Maedhros knew he should cut them down without compunction, but even he could no longer stand to deal death to frightened cubs, guilty of nothing more than being born at the whim of a mad Vala left to run unchecked in a land that need never have known such evil.

When a terrified but resolute female orc shuffled in front of a group of wide-eyed young ones, armed with nothing more than bloodied claws, sharp teeth and the sort of defiance with which he had once faced his captors in these same pits, he called a halt to the slaughter.

In one of the main orcish dialects, he demanded, “Choose swiftly: a clean death and whatever awaits your kind or take your chances in the bowels of the mountain, taking them with you.” He gestured with the point of his sword at the younglings.

She met his eyes, distrust plainly written on her unlovely features. “You offer mercy? There is no mercy for our kind.”

“You question an offer of life instead of death?”

By way of answer, she spat on the floor and stared at him from black eyes rimmed faintly with amber.

“Death or life?” His repeated question was laden with compulsion and for a heartbeat, he saw a flash of something older – and wiser – in her eyes. “Choose,” he ordered.

“Life,” she hissed.

“Then live,” he said quietly, before turning and striding from the dank cell, sparing not a backward glance for the female orc and her terrified charges.

The few Edain that were left under his direct command followed wordlessly, too exhausted by dealing death to even think of questioning his actions. He knew not whether the female and the cubs stood any chance of finding their way out through the network of passages and he could not allow himself to think more deeply on their plight. All he knew was that he could no longer dispense more death unless directly threatened. He had killed more that day than he had done in any battle and he was sick to the core, brittle as over-tempered iron and a hair’s breadth away of crawling into the dark and praying to the light he no longer believed in to end his pain, to take away the stench of evil that had sunk into his bones, leaving him back in bed in Tirion before the Darkening, before Morgoth’s evil took hold in their hearts, making them question and distrust those they had previously held dear.

He longed for the comfort of his mother’s arms and yet knew he would never relax into her embrace again.

If he ever slept he would see a thousand dying eyes staring at him. Some grateful, some hating, most simply pushed far beyond heated emotion into weary acceptance. Beyond hope, beyond fear. A thousand dead eyes, all light gone from them. His brothers’ eyes, his father’s eyes before his ruined body flared like a torch. The eyes of friends, of enemies, of those whose names he would never even know.

When his rag tag company finally crawled back into the light, Maedhros simply lay on the rank earth of the Anfauglith, his head pillowed on his forearms as around them quartermasters shouted orders and healers swept away his former charges and helpers alike, but no one had the nerve to rouse Maedhros Bloody-Handed from where he lay, desperately dragging air into heaving lungs, trying – and failing – to clamber to his knees under a grey sky, still laden with the dust of ruined mountains.

A hand, he knew not whose, thrust a waterskin at him and he gulped down liquid more precious even than miruvor, slaking a desperate thirst. He coughed, but kept the water in his gullet. That was an improvement. He had kept little down on that long day. His guts were hollow, his mind empty, his nerves raw.

His hand shook before his own eyes and Maedhros son of Fëanor rightly called Bloody-Handed, knelt in the dust and dirt of the Anfauglith, before the broken bones of mountains and the bloody carcass of the greatest of dragons, and wept for the death he had dealt.

****

Ingwion watched the healers usher the freed slaves into tents, their rescuers still with them. All who had ventured into the broken halls and tunnels of Morgoth’s fortress wore the same expression of blank horror, many with tear tracks pale on their faces, their clothes rank with blood and filth. Warm, spiced wine laced with strong spirit was thrust into hands that shook, for each a mouthful before the cup was passed on, to be followed by waterskins and mugs of broth.

Those without visible injuries were commended to the care of their comrades, leaving the healers to care for dull-eyed thralls and barely-alive slaves dragged from the depths of Angband’s mines. Their injuries were horrific, many with missing limbs and gouged out eyes. How they had survived and still worked down there was inconceivable even to those who had lived through fifty years of constant warfare against an implacable enemy who ever sought to capture rather than kill, prizing living prisoners above corpses, as the dead could neither work the mines nor quarry stone, nor could they be used to swell the ranks of his armies, their bodies and minds twisted beyond recognition.

Recognising one of Maedhros’s captains swigging direct from the neck of a flagon of rough brewed ale, Ingwion asked, “Lord Maedhros?”

She shrugged. “He was behind me when we made it out of tunnel before it collapsed. He was the last, my lord. There were none behind us.”

“Do you know where …?”

She shrugged again. “Lord Elrond came and hauled him off somewhere, but there are hundreds more to tend.” She took another gulp of ale, heedless of his presence, her tree-lit eyes fixed on a point beyond him, staring at the angry red of the sun as it sank below the broken peaks, turning the dust-laden sky to smoky purple and grey. She had been one of the few elves Maedhros had allowed to join the rescue party, presumably because she would simply have disregarded any command to stay behind. He had once heard her remark that having wiped his arse as a baby had left her largely immune to his hard-eyed stares.

“Is there ought I can do?” he asked, feeling helplessness settle around his shoulders like a heavy wool cloak.

“Find him. Make him eat and drink. Make him sleep.”

“You do know your lord, I take it?”

Her lips twisted in the ghost of a smile. “If he won’t heed you or Elrond, send for Barak. He has the same way with Nelyo as Azaghâl had. If he refuses to drink, Barak will hold his head down in a beer barrel.”

“A commendable tactic.”

As Ingwion turned to go, her hand caught his sleeve, “Do not let him try to return to that place, my lord. There are none left there we can help. Even the dwarven engineers were losing the battle with the collapses. There might still be tunnels into the mountains, but the ways out onto the plain are gone. We barely escaped with our skins intact.”

“I will do what I can. And I commend to you your own advice, captain.”

She raised the flagon to him in ironic salute. “He sent me away with instructions to drink myself insensible. That’s one order of his I intend to follow.”

Ingwion picked his way through the tumult of an army camp full of soldiers still celebrating Morgoth’s defeat and their own survival. His young page trotted at his side, wide-eyed but alert and old now beyond her years. Ingwion cured the hide-bound and narrow sighted Vanyar who had been so in thrall to convention and custom that the idea of a royal prince devoid of a ceremonial entourage had been inconceivable. The ones still alive had grown up fast. Families had sent children to a war. They would receive back soldiers, killers, survivors.

He found Maedhros leaning against a tent post, glaring at Elrond, who had the look of someone fast approaching the end of his tether, about to trample any social niceties into the dust beneath his boots.

“Atar, for fuck’s sake let me tend to your injuries …”

“Language,” Maedhros muttered, in the off-hand, reflexive manner of a parent simply going through the motions of fighting a long-lost battle.

“Atar!”

“No.” Maedhros waved the stump of his right wrist in the vague direction of the tent flap. “There are plenty who need your services more than I. You should know that. You’ve already filled every available tent with my strays, including my own. You’ve seen that I’m alive and still on my feet …”

“… debateable,” Elrond muttered.

“… now tend to those who need you more.”

“Stop being such a stubborn bastard, Maedhros.” Ingwion caught a flicker of amusement on Elrond’s usually impassive face at his intervention. “Your foster-son has a care for your wellbeing.”

“My foster-son would care for the wellbeing of the camp cat given half a chance. He once brought an abandoned wolverine cub home and insisted on raising it. The damn thing used to follow him around like a lapdog. Elrond has a kind heart and wastes it on kinslayers and other murderers.”

Elrond rolled his grey eyes expressively. “Why do you think I bonded with a wolverine? He’s drunk, Lord Ingwion. Half a cask of dwarven rot-gut brewed from the soles of orc-boots and seasoned with decomposing rat by the smell of it on his breath.”

Maedhros lifted a battered silver flask to his lips and swallowed deeply. “A good vintage.” He held the flask out to Ingwion. “Try it.”

Ingwion took one sniff and fought to stop himself recoiling.

Steel grey eyes met his, holding all the arrogant challenge of the Noldor and every last ounce of their inflexibility.

He held those tree-lit eyes with his own stare and put the neck of the flask to his mouth, still warm from Maedhros’s lips. The liquor tasted marginally better than it smelt, which was fortunate, but it still burnt a trail like lava from Morgoth’s mountains down Ingwion’s gullet. He fought back a cough, saving face suddenly more important than sparing the lining of his throat and took a second mouthful. That burnt less and tasted better.

Maedhros snatched the flask back in a movement almost too fast to follow. “I said try it, not finish it. You’ve no doubt been sitting on your arse all day receiving pointless reports that your quartermasters could have dealt with in a fraction of the time, whereas my day has been less relaxing.”

“I spent much of the day in debate with Eönwë.”

“Tell me about it when I have found a fuck to give.”

Elrond let out a snort of amusement. “He got that one from Elros. If you push him, he’ll probably point out the field in which he buried his last fuck.” He pulled Maedhros into his arms and held him close. “Atya, go with Lord Ingwion, I beg you, or I will drag Ínor away from whatever campfire she’s collapsed by …”

Maedhros’s hand tightened on Elrond’s shoulder and Ingwion saw him relax into the embrace for a heartbeat, then he stepped back, holding his composure as firmly as he held the rags of his tunic. “I stood her down.”

“And I won’t hesitate to recall her if you don’t stop being a stubborn bastard. Go with Lord Ingwion to his fine tent, get your wounds cleaned and get some food into your guts before that stuff rots you a new arsehole from the inside. And drink something that doesn’t smell like Elros’s fermented underwear mixed with fresh fox shit.”

Maedhros let a twisted grin find its way to his face. “I should have drowned you when I had the chance.”

“Yes, Atar. Now go with the nice prince before I find another wolverine to adopt.” With that, Elrond turned on his heel and disappeared into the tent.

“Arrange a hot bath in my tent, Kyermiel,” Ingwion instructed.

Maedhros’s grin quirked into something that almost resembled a smile. “I would have followed without the need for threats if a hot bath had been mentioned sooner.”

On the walk back to what he now saw as his obscenely luxurious tent, Ingwion was conscious of the stares that followed Fëanor’s eldest son wherever he went. Some shamelessly adoring. Others holding old hatred like a flame in their eyes. Survivors of Doriath, survivors of Sirion, side by side with those of the Vanyar who had family or friends who died at Alqualonde. All mixed with those who remembered the days of the Long Peace, dearly bought by the sons of Fëanor who held the Gap against Morgoth’s creatures, allowing Beleriand to shelter behind the shield of their constant vigilance.

Hands reached out to Maedhros, rough voices murmured thanks.

He clasped every offered hand. Returned all thanks with those of his own. Gave news, if he could. Offered condolence where needed.

He moved with the precision of a man pushed to the brink of his endurance, a man who knew that his first stumble would be his last.

Dwarves hailed him in their own language and he answered in the same.

He traded friendly insults with Elros’s scouts and captains, many of whom he had clearly known from childhood.

No longer a prince of the Noldor or even the grim lord of Himring, simply the commander of a mobile force made up of all races, those who saw beyond the oath-driven kinslayer to something else, to a man who wanted nothing more than to lay down the burden that had driven him to the brink of madness and to rest, even if that rest was in the cold of the Everlasting Darkness.

But for now, the warmth of Ingwion’s tent would have to suffice.

By the time they were able to disappear from view behind the heavy, Valinor woven drapes, an enormous copper tub had been filled with steaming lavender scented water. Maedhros gripped the neck of the battered flask between his teeth and groped for the buckle of his leather weapons’ belt.

Ingwion relieved him of the flask and set it down firmly on a nearby table. “Have food and drink brought, Kyermiel, and procure clean clothes for Lord Maedhros if you can, then take your own rest.”

His page bobbed a bow then ducked out of the bathing room.

As soon as the flap fell closed behind her, Maedhros swayed alarmingly and would have gone to his knees if Ingwion hadn’t moved quickly enough to take his weight.

“You really are a stubborn bastard.”

“One of my more endearing traits, so my foster sons lead me to believe.”

Ingwion laughed. “Your foster sons’ judgment is no doubt clouded by childhood sentimentality.”

“Bollocks. We sacked their home, drove their mother to despair and took them as hostages. They hated us for years. It took that damned wolverine to break the ice between us. The little hellions insisted on keeping it, no doubt to see how far they could leverage our remorse.”

Maedhros wrestled with the laces of his tunic, finally giving up and hauling it over his head, revealing a hidden harness that held two slender knives, no doubt weapons of last resort, as well as the ones in his boots and those strapped to his foreshortened right forearm.

“Six knives?”

Maedhros turned to reveal one nestling between his shoulder blades. “Seven.”

The strapwork, although seemingly complicated, fell away with a tug on one buckle.

Ingwion stared at the ruin of a back that had been torn to the bone multiple times by whips and flails. Uncaring of any personal modesty, Maedhros kicked off his filthy boots and pushed the wreckage of his leather trousers down over slim hips to reveal long legs of corded muscle, also covered in whip scars and knife cuts. His buttocks bore the unmistakeable marks of claws and teeth. Clear evidence of the use to which Morgoth’s creatures had put their prisoner.

Maedhros turned to face him, wearing nothing more than an ironic smile. “Not so well-shaped now, am I?”

“You have survived war and torture. I’d hardly expect unblemished smooth skin. This is not one of Taniquetil’s bathing pools that has never seen worse than a grazed knee nor I am not one of my mother’s cloistered maidens to faint at the sight of damaged flesh.”

The strong, swordfighter’s shoulders were equally scarred, as was the sculpted chest and flat stomach. Barely an inch of skin had escaped the touch of whip, blade, fangs or fire. One side of his chest was so marred by scar tissue that the nipple was no longer visible, the other had been bisected by a thin blade and the nipple had healed with a rift. No part of his anatomy had survived intact. His trip into the depths of Angband had left an open wound across his chest, a long graze from hip bone to knee on his left side and a gash below his right knee that had bled profusely as wounds there often did.

Maedhros reached for the flask and drained what was left in one swallow. His hand shook as he dropped it back onto the table.

“Without the Oath holding me to Arda I would have taken my chances with the Everlasting Dark and counted myself lucky for it. I have been torn by the whips of balrogs, raped by orcs and werewolves and tortured by Gorthaur the Cruel. Moringotto tired of me when I could no longer scream for his enjoyment and I was sent below to toil with the other slaves, forgotten until I fomented rebellion once too often, then he had me chained to the mountain, forced to lick moisture from the rock and catch scraps of rotting food thrown to me by my captors. Without the help of the ravens of the high mountains I would have starved long before my cousin’s valiant rescue.”

As he spoke, Maedhros stepped into the tub and sank gratefully into the water, sliding down fully to wet his hair, the blank expression that had settled on his face giving way to one of unashamed pleasure.

“When was the last time you had a hot bath?”

Maedhros leaned back, eyes closed, letting water stream down his face. “A hot bath? Not since we were driven from Amon Ereb.”

Ingwion performed some mental gymnastics to arrive at a number that left him feeling significantly over-privileged. “Soap?” he asked, to cover his embarrassment.

“That would be appreciated. If I set foot out of this tent with so much as a speck of blood left on me, one of my ever-annoying foster sons will no doubt turn up in my tent and demand sanctuary for a dragon hatchling or a whole litter of wolverines.”

Ingwion proffered a block of scented soap. “May I aid you?”

“I want to tell you that I am capable of washing my own damned hair but …”

“But you have reached the stage that your muscles are no longer responding to the dictates of your mind.”

“A fancy way of saying I am fucking knackered and can barely lift my arm let alone wash orc guts from my hair.”

Ingwion pulled up a wooden stool and lathered the soap in his hands before hesitantly running his fingers through Maedhros’s scandalously short hair. Maedhros leaned into his touch, eyes closed, gradually letting the tension drain from his body, leaving him dishrag limp under Ingwion’s ministrations. From the colour of the suds, it seemed half the filth of Angband’s sewers had adhered to the matted strands under his fingers but eventually most of the tangles yielded to gentle unpicking.

“You pull less than Maglor’s fat fingers,” Maedhros lied. “Cut what remains knotted. I won’t break your arm if you bring a blade near me. If you slit my throat now it would be a blessing.”

“You’ll not make a kinslayer of me, no matter how hard you try.”

Maedhros sighed. “I have not yet made the attempt. Just cut my damned hair. You can hardly make it look worse, and I left vanity behind on one of the three peaks, along with a hand.”

Ingwion slid a slender, wickedly sharp knife out of sheath strapped to his calf and cut away the remaining knots. Echoing his long ago nurse, he instructed, “Rinse.”

Maedhros obediently slid down in the tub, eyes still closed, letting the hot water close over his face for a moment.

A discreet cough on the other side of the tent flat announced the return of his page and he heard the bustle of servants setting out food and leaving clothes, as he’d instructed.

“Stand,” Ingwion ordered when they had gone. “I need to get the filth out of those cuts and lacerations. This water is fast turning an unhealthy colour.”

“This water is probably the best thing that’s happened to me in the past fifty years, I won’t hear a word against its virtues.” Despite his grumbles, Maedhros pushed himself upright with his good hand, swaying but managing to remain vertical by sheer force of will.

Ingwion used a soft cloth to dislodge the remaining dirt, cleaning the cuts and grazes and washing away the bright blood that welled up as the crusted scabs parted company with scarred skin.

“Much as I appreciate your ministrations, I must warn you that if I don’t sit down soon, you are likely to be picking me up off the floor.”

Ingwion steadied Maedhros as he stepped out of the tub. The former Lord of Himring almost purred with pleasure as he felt the touch of warm towels that had been wrapped around a hot stone.

“I’ll pretend I never heard that noise,” Ingwion murmured.

Maedhros huffed a soft laugh. “All my secrets are now laid bare.” He took the towel from Ingwion’s hands and unselfconsciously rubbed the water from his over-lean body.

Ingwion rummaged in a wooden chest and pulled out a soft, loose sleeping robe. “When you’ve finished ruining that towel, let me sing those wounds closed. I don’t have Maglor’s talent or Elrond’s powers but nor will you bleed to death on my watch.”

The cut below Maedhros’s kneecap yielded to a simple song of healing, as did the long graze on his thigh, The slash across his chest proved somewhat more stubborn, leaving Ingwion to suspect a tainted orc blade. Touching his fingers gently to the torn skin, he intensified the song, layering in an element of compulsion, weaving complex notes of guard and binding. Warmth spread from his fingertips, knitting the torn skin back together to leave one more line quickly fading into the mass of others.

Under his fingertips he felt the strong, steady beat of Maedhros’s heart and looked into grey, Noldorin eyes with treelight dancing in bright flecks in a narrow strip of grey surrounding a jet back pupil, so wide that the colour was little more than a halo around a dark sun.

Scarred knuckles pressed lightly against Ingwion’s cheek, brushing aside a wisp of hair that had escaped tight Vanyarin braids layered in rows of tiny plaits across his head to join in a complex braid held back by a jewelled clasp at his neck. Ingwion turned reflexively into the touch, wondering in that moment who was offering comfort and who was receiving it.

“It matters not,” Maedhros murmured. “Tonight will remain between us.”

The grey eyes held a question and Ingwion knew that nothing further would happen if he withheld the answer. He drew in a shuddering breath, cast aside his own fears and his mother’s hopes, and touched his lips to those of a kinslayer.

For a heartbeat he was certain he had misread the situation, then Maedhros’s mouth opened under his and he was kissing the scarred lips, running his hands up a water-warmed, ruined back. The kiss was ragged and uncoordinated, tender and fierce. Everything he’d hoped for and nothing like he’d imagined.

When they broke apart, both panting, laughter danced in the grey eyes. “That was … unexpected,” Ingwion murmured

“Liar. You have spent the past fifty years flirting with me under the disapproving nose of your uncle and my generals.

“And you have spent fifty years impervious to my charms.”

“Maybe not as impervious as you imagined.” Maedhros rested his forehead against Ingwion’s. “I was serious about the threat of falling down.”

Ingwion held out the robe. “Arms.”

Maedhros obediently lifted both arms and let the robe settle around him.

“Go through to my sleeping room. I will fetch the food.”

“And the drink …”

“And the drink, but it will be good Amanyar wine, not your foul dwarven rot-gut.”

Maedhros grinned. “I believe I was instructed to drink water.”

“And you will. The wine is for me.”

****

Much later, Maedhros lay with his head pillowed on Ingwion’s shoulder, trying - and failing – to rid his mind of the sights, sounds and smells of a day that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. Although it seemed increasingly likely that he might not have to carry that burden much longer. Ingwion’s slender fingers carding through his damp hair were a reminder that whatever course of action he chose would come with regrets, but the Oath was as harsh a taskmaster as the Enemy. He could feel the inexorable pull of his father’s cursed jewels twisting in his guts like snakes in a sack. Ingwion’s next words did nothing to help calm their gyrations.

“Arafinwë left with Morgoth today. By decree of the Valar Moringotto is being taken beyond the Doors of Night. Vingilot will convey him hence.”

“And the Silmarils?”

“Remain here – for now. Eönwë and I argued ourselves to a standstill on the subject.”

“Reasonable as ever,” Maedhros muttered. “He knows Maglor and I cannot accept the Valar’s claim to them.

“He wants you both to return to Valinor and accept the Valar’s judgment.”

“I have tasted the hospitality of one of their kind once. You’ll forgive me if I seem not eager to experience its like again.”

“You have done much to answer for, Maedhros.”

“And I have answered for those deeds with blood shed in defence of those whom the Valar abandoned. Maglor and I have paid for Alqualonde, for Doriath and even for Siron, the foulest of our actions by far, with fifty years and more of unceasing warfare, taking always the most hazardous missions, over and over, saving more innocents than we ever slew, yet to the Herald of the Valar we are nought but worms under his feet. The Valar left us to pin Moringotto in his mountains for nigh on five hundred years. Ever my brothers and I held the Gap against him so that others might live in peace. Where were the Valar then? Their inaction doomed more than my actions ever did. I am not seeking to excuse our evil deeds, but I will answer for mine to them when they beg the pardon of every single person their inaction doomed to torment and death. ”

“Your uncle has offered to stand beside you in the Mahanaxar and plead your case.”

“My uncle would wear sorrow like a shroud and plead for our lives, I have no doubt about that, but other than the offense of leaving a land that was never understood to be a prison, I have committed no sin against the Valar. Our first sin was against the Teleri. Swords should never have been drawn at Alqualonde. My father was mad with grief, as were we, darkness had fallen in the land of light and we ran like mice in a trap, gnawing at anything to escape. Swords on one side, boat hooks and fishing spears on the other. Who struck the first blow, I know not. What followed was a skirmish of a type that we lived with almost every day on the grim northern front. The songs paint it as a slaughter on the scale of the Nirnaeth with the Finwëans playing the part of Moringotto’s hosts. The reality was somewhat less heroic. In the chaos on the docks death was dealt indiscriminately, few able to tell friend from foe in the darkness that beset us. I have nothing that would even pass for an excuse for Doriath and even less for Sirion, but be that as it may, I will not plead for mercy from the so-called Powers who sat on the arses when it was their gullibility that allowed this mess to take root and their insufferable pomposity and pride that allowed it to continue.”

Ingwion sighed and stroked the riot of copper waves spilling onto his shoulder. “I do not need a recitation of past actions and inactions. I am not your judge, Maedhros. I would stand beside you and your uncle and bear witness to your deeds alongside the Hosts of Aman and on behalf of those who owe a hard-won peace in part to you and your brothers. I am sincerely sorry that it took so long for aid to reach you.”

“I thank you for the offer, but I will take my chance in what is left of the land that has drunk of my blood and the blood of my brothers rather than trust to the questionable mercy of those who hardened their hearts against us and closed their ears to the pleas of the many innocents who sought their aid.”

“And the Silmarils?”

“The Silmarils belong to Maglor and I through right of inheritance. When the jewels are returned to us and the Oath is fulfilled then we will discuss their fate with the Valar’s emissary. But the Valar have no claim to them stronger than ours. Theirs is based on nought but covetousness.

“Varda hallowed the jewels and it is said that they contain the only remaining light of the trees.”

“More like Varda cursed them. The Valar do not need the light of the jewels. There are other lights now. They should not have the Silmarils and nor should anyone else. This needs to end.”

“I find it hard to believe we are having this conversation now after we have … shared pleasure.”

Maedhros tilted his head to press a featherlight kiss to Ingwion’s jaw. “You Vanyar are so delicate, even after fifty years of war. After we have fucked, you mean?”

Ingwion bent his head to nip at Maedhros’s lower lip then soothe the small hurt with his tongue and hum away the pain. “I think I buried any delicacy I ever had many long years ago, probably in the same field you buried your last fuck, as your foster son would say. But as you remarked earlier, I confess I had not expected this.”

“Not even after damn nearly fifty years of verbal foreplay?”

Ingwion laughed. “No, not even after fifty years of verbal foreplay and equally shameless flirting over battlefield strategy and tactics.”

“Elros told me decades ago that we should just fuck this – whatever it is – out of our systems.”

“Elros spends most of his time with the Edain. They cannot afford fifty years of flirtation.”

The slow drift of sword callused fingers started to kindle fire again low in Ingwion’s belly and he felt his body stir once more to Maedhros’ touch.

“The Laws and Customs would not approve,” he murmured, flicking his tongue into the sensitive hollow at the base of Maedhros’ ear. His reward was a full body shiver and a delicious tightening of the questing hand.

“Why should we not be free to seek pleasure where we will, providing there is no coercion or harm? Why do the Valar seek ever to constrain us?”

“Maedhros, I cannot debate theology or discuss the finer points of the Laws and Customs with your hand on my cock!”

“Because it’s fundamentally wrong or …”

“Because what you are doing makes every rational thought fly out of my head. I want to do no more than lie here and let you drive fifty years of warfare out of my mind.”

Ingwion suddenly found himself flipped over to straddle Maedhros’ lithe, lean form.

“And I want nothing more than to lie here and let you fuck every thought of Angband out of my head.”

Strong legs wound around his waist and he felt the delicious slide of a hard cock against his.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I have spent a long day in the deepest pits of Angband. I lost count very quickly of the number I killed. I went there to free slaves and thralls, not to slaughter orc younglings or stab pregnant elf-women in the belly. Make me forget!” Maedhros’ rough voice broke on the last three words and as he spoke, he canted his hips and reached for Ingwion’s cock, positioning it at his entrance.

“Oil?”

“Not necessary …”

Hard heels pressed against his buttocks, urging him on.

“Maedhros …”

“I will not break.”

Long-lashed grey eyes held his. Ingwion had seen those same eyes quell even the most over-confident of captains with a glance but now they held nothing but pleading. He bent his head to kiss the scarred lips and felt them open to his tongue as Maedhros’s body yeilded to his thrust and rose to meet him, taking him deep and pushing back for more. He felt Maedhros relax and soften, tension bleeding from his taut muscles.

Together they fell into a rhythm and as Maedhros met each thrust and urged him on, Ingwion set a fast pace, driving himself home, angling his thrusts in search of the place that made sparks flare in the treelit eyes and a quiet gasp fall from lips that were all too often drawn together in a stern line.

He wanted to see those sparks catch fire and rise like a beacon, signalling pleasure not pain, proof that memories had finally been driven out of the shadows. He knew what Maedhros wanted was punishment – not judgment – simply punishment for sins he had tried to atone for over and over by his other actions but Ingwion would not be an instrument of punishment. The Oath had been a hard enough taskmaster over five hundred long years, harder even than the whips and brands that had left their marks on the formerly unscarred Prince of Tirion upon Tuna. At times the Oath might have slumbered, but never had it slept. With the fall of the Black Enemy, the Oath was now free to exert itself again and Maedhros knew it.

Ingwion snapped his hips forward and watched the dancing lights flare again like sparks twisting in the air above a bonfire, carried high above the flames below. Every thrust stoked the fire and he felt his own skin break as Maedhros’ nails carved furrows in the skin of his back.

His own pleasure started to mount again, coiling low in his guts, smouldering like the fuses lit by the dwarven engineers in their tunnels to break up the ore-bearing rock, the glowing tip moving inexorably closer to the blasting powder.

Beneath him, he felt Maedhros’ chest shake with silent laughter. “That analogy is anything but poetic.”

Ingwion stilled and stared down at his unlikely lover. “I had not intended to broadcast my thoughts.”

“And I thought I had long ago closed my mind off so I neither received not sent. You have breached more than my arse tonight, my lord Ingwion.”

Ingwion greeted that comment with another snap of his hips. “You have a charming turn of phrase in the middle of fucking, my lord Maedhros.”

The laughter emerged as a breathless chuckle that went straight to Ingwion’s groin and he wondered when anyone other than Maedhros’ brothers or his former nurse had last seen Maedhros Bloody-Handed in an unguarded moment.

“I am meant to be driving you to forgetfulness, not laughter.”

“I’ve sought laughter even longer than I’ve sought forgetfulness, so for that gift I thank you.”

With all the control over mind and body he’d learned from his father, Ingwion ruthlessly clamped down on the smouldering fuse of his own pleasure and set himself to learning what made those sparks dance from the flames, chasing each and every one and then setting another and yet another to follow. He learned that Maedhros had no sensation in either nipple, but that that kissing along his jawline and licking around his tattered ears would draw whines of pleasure and delicious squirming that belied the formidable reputation of the former war lord of Himring. As he followed his instincts. soft laughter mingled with kisses that veered between tender one moment and demanding the next.

Forcing forgetfulness would have been easier than coaxing it, but whilst Ingwion had no experience to fall back on, he learned quickly and brought his talent for improvisation into play. The soft skin on the inside of his lover’s elbows proved extraordinarily sensitive, as did the junction of arm and shoulder and Ingwion exploited each new discovery until sweat mingled on their bodies and they gasped into each other’s mouths.

Finally, he felt Maedhros tense beneath him and the strong thighs around his waist began to tremble. Ingwion felt the moment of shared climax like a starburst, his own and Maedhros’ pleasure mingling like the light of the trees, each open to the other for the briefest of moments then the treelit eyes fell quiet, no longer burning, the embers fading to peace at last.

Ingwion gathered Maedhros into his arms and drifted into sleep with him, their bodies comfortably entwined but, despite a hard-won moment of peace, the foreknowledge that this was nothing more than a temporary truce with a deadly Oath sworn in anger and grief hung over them like a pall of smoke above a funeral pyre.

****

Ingwion turned onto his side, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, one arm flung out artlessly, hopefully.

The furs next to him were cold, and very, very empty.

He came fully awake in an instant, scrabbling for clothes and boots, a sense of foreboding settling heavily on his chest, the memory of a murmured apology and a featherlight kiss before he’d drifted into sleep confirming his worst fears.

He left his tent at a run, looping his weapons belt over his shoulder and fastening the buckle one handed. His guards followed, grim and silent.

The tent containing the Silmarils lay close by but he could see no sign of those charged with the protection of the jewels. His footsteps slowed and it was as through he was running through thick fog, all sound muffled, the world grey and distant. Putting one foot in front of the other became the hardest thing he could imagine … if he could only sleep … just sleep until morning … he stumbled and barely caught the misstep …

A burst of white fire broke through the mist and he saw Eönwë standing before the tent, where only a heartbeat ago there had been nothing but mist. Burning white light drove back the darkness and shattered the Song.

A figure wrapped in a dark cloak stepped out, a wooden box tucked under his handless arm, a drawn sword in the other.

“Inconvenient,” Maedhros drawled. “We had rather hoped to be away quietly to avoid any … unpleasantness.”

Maglor stepped out behind him, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

Ingwion saw the blades glint bright in the moonlight, unstained by blood. Clearing the last of the Song from his head with a vigorous shake, he threw one hand out in a wordless instruction to his guards to hold back.

“The sons of Fëanor are thieves in the night now?” Eönwë’s words were loaded with scorn.

“We cannot steal something that is being wrongly withheld from us. The jewels are ours by right of inheritance. Theft cannot overwrite that claim. Subsequent possessors of the jewels knew they had been stolen. If such a circumstance had come before my grandfather’s courts in Tiron, judgement would not have been in doubt. The Silmarils would have been returned to their original creator and owner. I surely do not need to remind you that knowingly retaining stolen goods to the detriment of their original owner is a crime?”

“As is attempting their recovery with violence.”

“Guilty as charged,” Maedhros acknowledged. “However, I plead mitigation in that prior notice was given thrice to those unlawfully retaining our property that we would seek to recover them by other means. But regardless, there is no law that mandates forfeiture to your masters in such circumstances. They have no claim to the work of our father’s hands and no law binds me to render the Silmarils to them to satisfy their whims and their covetousness.”

“Maedhros!” Ingwion snapped, finally recovering the power of speech. “You are being deliberately provocative.”

“Forgive me, my Lord Ingwion,” Maedhros said. “Guilty as charged, again. But much as I would happily continue to explain the concept of wrongful possession to the Emissary of the Valar, I sense that I would be wasting my breath, and perhaps this is ground that you have already covered …?”

“As you well know,” Ingwion snapped. “Set the jewels down, Maedhros, and let us tend our dead before we discuss this further.”

Maedhros arched one eyebrow. “Dead? A reasonable presumption, given past history, but credit my brother and I with more skill than that. Your guards will wake with severe headaches, but wake they will. However, Maglor and I intend to leave this camp with the Silmarils, and we reserve the right to defend ourselves in that endeavour and to meet violence with violence.

Ingwion stepped forward, ruthlessly quelling his rising anger. “Lord Eönwë, I would speak with Maedhros and his brother alone.”

The air of otherworldliness intensified to the point of pain, then abruptly the Herald of Manwe veiled his power and stepped aside, leaving with the words, “You have no authority to treat on this matter,” echoing in Ingwion’s head.

Throwing a circle of power around them to the exclusion of all others, Ingwion stepped deliberately within range of Maedhros’ sword. “Was last night a lie?”

“I did not lie, either with words or with my body. My intent was always clear. I trained in my grandfather’s court and I stand by my words to the Valar’s lackey. I charge him with knowingly possessing stolen goods and wilfully refusing to return them when requested by their lawful owners. To that he has no answer or I would have received it by now, but instead, he refuses to treat. I further charge his masters with covetousness. You said last night that you had argued with him to no avail, and I know that your training in the arts of the law is the equal of mine, so Maglor and I decided to remove the bone of contention and reclaim our inheritance. Would you start the cycle again by taking them from us?” Maedhros abruptly dropped his courtroom manner and allowed entreaty to enter his voice, “Let us make an end of this. The jewels must not remain where they can be fought over like scraps from a table. We are exhausted, hollowed by the Oath and its shadow lingers still. There can be no peace for a world that still contains the Silmarils if even its Powers are not immune to their unnatural lure.”

“You speak as if you hate them.”

“From the depths of my heart.”

“You stand in the middle of an armed encampment. Do you truly believe you can escape with the jewels?”

“Yes. I intend to walk or ride from here. And I intend to end this. The jewels spent five hundred years on Moringotto’s crown. They are cursed. They have been cursed from the moment he stole them. If they are taken back to Aman, what then? Which Vala will be the next to decide they want a pretty trinket? Do you wish to take that risk?

“I do not wish to stand against you as an enemy.”

“Then stand aside. Return to Aman and let those who remain spin what tales they wish to end this with their honour intact. I am weary in mind and body and no long lay claim to any honour. My story is finished. Let me draw this to a close on my own terms. I will not be taken across the sea in chains to be humbled before powers who did too little, too late, and who have now left a broken world in the wake of a mess that should have been cleaned up long ages ago. The sea encroaches day by day. The land is breaking apart beneath our feet. How many more will die now? Go back to your perfect land and learn to live in peace again. There is no peace left that I can now claim for my own.”

“Come with me and learn to live in peace at my side.”

Maedhros’ laugher was harsh and held no humour. “There is no place for Maedhros Bloody-handed in your land. I am a weapon forged for war, but the war is now over. Let me find rest.”

“You would crawl in some hole like an old fox and lick your wounds?”

“I will see my part in the Oath done with, as will my brother.”

“And then?”

Maedhros smiled and let the stone hard façade slide from his scarred face, releasing a wave sadness and despair that swept over Ingwion as swift and merciless as an incoming tide. “And then? I know not how my story will end. But stand aside and let me face it on my own terms. I’m glad I knew one final night of peace and I thank you for that. Do not let any follow us. If they do, it will not end well.”

“I do not wish to part as enemies.” Ingwion would stand before the Valar and defend his actions if need be, but he would not pit kin against each other for the sake of two bloodstained trinkets. Maedhros was right, this needed to end.

“Then let us part as friends … and unlikely lovers.”

Ingwion allowed the circle of power to drop.

****

“Atar, what the fuck?”

Elros’ words hit him with the force of a charging boar.

From behind Maedhros, Maglor muttered something disapproving about their foster-son’s choice of language and despite the situation, Maedhros smiled. The world was falling apart – literally – but some things were still as predictable as night following day.

“We have reclaimed our inheritance and are leaving now, Elros. It is over, at last.”

“Leaving without saying farewell?” Elrond commended.

“Without implicating you in our perceived crimes.” Maedhros stuck his sword in the ground and wordlessly held out his arm to Elrond who flew to his side in a heartbeat. Maedhros held him close and stroked his tightly braided hair. “We have to end this. You and your brother have been bright sparks in our lives that we did not deserve.” He buried his face in his son’s neck and allowed pent up tears to fall. “No jewels are worth the harm we have caused. Remember two things: swear no oaths and have a care around anything that sparkles.”

A laugh caught in Elrond’s throat. “Atya, those are really the words you are leaving me with?”

Maedhros hugged him hard. “Yes, now say farewell to Maglor.” A moment later he had his arms full of a swearing Elros and nearly dropped the damned Silmarils in the dirt of a breaking world. “Careful, or you’ll have to deal with the wretched things if I part company with them!”

Elros’s hug drove the breath from his lungs. “Atya, you’re a fucking idiot, I’d have a thousand men at your side if you’d only ask.”

“Why do you think I held my silence and hold it still? Leave me and live your own life, Elros, and live it well.”

Elros, battle-hardened leader of the Edain, snuffled on Maedhros’ shoulder like the ten-year-old who had been afraid of thunderstorms. “You won’t take your own advice, will you, you bastard?”

Maedhros kissed him. “No, of course I fucking well won’t.”

“Language, Atya,” Elros said, smiling through his tears, as the old joke hung in the air between them in a silence that had now stretched to breaking point and beyond.

As the peredhel twins said their farewell to Maglor, Maedhros ostentatiously sheathed his sword.

Two horses stamped and tossed their heads beyond the circle of torches.

Stepping away from Maglor, Elros cupped his hands to allow Maedhros to mount.

“Let none hinder them!” Eönwë instructed.

“Fucking magnanimous,” Elros commented.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother Elrond didn’t bother to stifle a smile despite the tears running freely down his cheeks.

Maedhros lifted his hand in farewell to Ingwion and the twins then rode away from the camp, Maglor at his side.

Above them in a black velvet sky, the third Silmaril shone with fierce, uncompromising fire.