I am at Himring now, and was here when word of Thingol's daughter arrived: that she has stood before the Enemy and returned alive. It has been a weary year, watching from afar as that strange affair went from bad to worse... and now this! A spark of hope, however faint. Morgoth assailed, his pride wounded, his might shown to be finite. A Silmaril, not secured, but at least out of his clutches. It lifts all of our hearts, to know that our Enemy is not omnipotent. (That Finrod did not die in vain.)
Maedhros is unsettled and does not sleep well. He, more than any other, is heartened by Lúthien's victory, and speaks of this as a time for a renewal of our cause. But the matter of the Silmaril troubles him, as does the conduct of Celegorm and Curufin. They are here now, and although he does not approve of what they have done, he will not turn away his brothers. On my own part, I cannot bring myself to be so forgiving. I have not spoken with either of them and do not dine at their table. This, and the matter of the Silmaril, lies like a darkness between Maedhros and me, a veil more impenetrable for our silence. What is there to say? I knew who Maedhros was when first I loved him, knew his brothers, what promises he had made. If one of my siblings so transgressed, would not I offer them shelter?
A bright thing amidst the disarray: Maedhros, a faraway look in his eyes, revealed the one thing that especially delighted him about the news.
"And what is that?" I asked him.
"That there is love between a Sindarin maiden and this son of Men," he said. "Ours is not the only baffling, impossible romance between the Mountains and the Sea." And he smiled, and embraced me. "You know in your heart that we are not alone."
"I know nothing of the sort," I said. "But I do hope. I trust that suffices."
Maedhros laughed, he who laughs so rarely now, and the sound of his laughter was like a cool salve against the wounds of memory, and I rejoiced to hear the sound. Even as I record these things now, I am less afraid for the both of us.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.