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The days were darkening again.
Softly, slowly, the light gave way to Morgoth’s power, the churning black clouds that spewed from Angband stretching ever towards the southern lands of Beleriand. No longer could Maedhros espy the peaks of the Ered Luin to the East; the West, of course, was long forsaken.
He who had ordered the retreat from the Mouths of Sirion to Amon Ereb, to a lone isle surrounded upon all sides without hope, looked now ever North, as though his watchful eyes would ever be enough to hold back the rising storm. Even Arien’s light was frail as she crossed the sky.
Twin shrieks pierced the gloom, the rushlights stuttering in the wind.
Maedhros’ head pounded, his mouth twisting downwards in disgust as he heard Maglor’s shrill voice drop into a soothing song. For what good did his brother’s belated regret do for them, they who had marched thrice on their kin? What good was his sorrow that threatened to swallow him whole, that made him feeble and unwilling to fight, that served only to assuage his own guilt? The light of the Silmaril was the only light that pierced the shadow, the only light that shone forth from the skies above, and under its lens of hope, Maedhros could feel his papered edges begin to burn and crumble into ashes of a past best forgotten.
He stood, his hulking form looming large in the doorway. They huddled together, Maglor’s stolen children in their borrowed clothing under borrowed blankets, shrinking back from his gaze, but Maedhros ignored them. Maglor was humming, no, singing, the words barely more than a sigh.
“Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala…”
“What are you doing?” roared Maedhros, lunging forward and seizing Maglor by the scruff of his cloak. His brother let out a choked cry, and the twins cowered, clinging to each other. Always they were silent in their fear, but Maedhros paid them no heed.
“How dare you,” he hissed, “how dare you sing them those words?”
“Brother,” choked Maglor, scrabbling for his throat. “Maedhros, release me, you know not where you are!”
“I know well where I am,” said Maedhros, coldly. He dropped Maglor at his feet, watching as his writhed beneath him. “You forget yourself. Even Curufin never dared–”
“Think you that I would have them swear these words? To whom, Maedhros? To me, to yourself? To our father and brothers long dead? To Manwë and Varda who abandoned us and hear not our cries?”
“Do you forget so quickly to whomst we are so sworn?” asked Maedhros. “Do you forget how hopeless our release must be?”
“Never,” said Maglor. “I burn as you do.”
Maedhros closed his eyes and groped behind him for the door. “Not as I do,” he whispered. “Please, Eru, not as I do.”
His hand closed around cold wood, and he opened his eyes, looking past where Maglor was kneeling, clutching at the makeshift bed, to the two half-elves stared in terror.
“Sing them a different song,” he commanded. “I won’t hear those words again.”
Maglor turned back to his charges.
“I cannot sing anything else,” his voice hoarse, each word scraping against his throat. “Every song is our oath, every hope is our oath, every choice, every path we take – it is all the Oath. The end is near, Maedhros, can you not feel it? Can you not feel the way our sworn words stopper our throats only to guide our swords? Can you not see how the Enemy stole our very futures from the moment the Light first vanished?”
“We can still fight–”
“We have never been able to fight but against our own kin!” Maglor was weeping in earnest now, kneeling on the floor, his face buried in the thin covers. The twins shrank back, clinging only to each other. “No lasting battle will lead us to victory, we have no recourse but for the Valar, and our Doom is that they never will hear us. Never again will they look to the East, beyond the Pelori, across the Seas. Yet, how long may we delay? Already your eyes are drawn North as surely as the Oath circles as a bird of prey in my song. It will not remain patient for long. What then, I ask you, brother?”
Maedhros flinched, the power in Maglor’s voice flaring like water thrown into a pan of flaming oil. One of the twins shrieked as the sputtering rushes failed at last. A rustling cloak accompanied Maglor’s soft, murmuring reassurance.
“Please,” Maedhros whispered into the dark. “All I ask. Sing them a different song.”