4. Failure - Maeglin
The Feanorian ambassador offered friendship. He offered aid in strengthening Menegroth. If Doriath needed gold to help the widows and orphans made by the recent treachery of the Naugrim, Maedhros would give whatever was required. Gold and other coin, the Feanorians had in plenty, even after the Nirnaeth. Caranthir's treasury in Ossiriand still stood.
The Thousand Caves would be better defended if the Sindar had two thousand of the finest swords in Beleriand. And, if the Sindar could find it in their hearts to forgive the horror of Alqualondë and renounce Thingol's declaration of enmity, each sword would come with a battle-hardened swordsman to wield it. Many of the ambassador's people wished a more settled existence, and it was pointed out that with Melian gone, Doriath was likely to need swordsmen. Morgoth would not leave them be for much longer.
And all, all the sons of Feänor asked in return, was the Silmaril. The ambassador argued patiently but insistently. The jewel was, after all, rightfully an heirloom of the House of Finwë, not that of Elwë. Did the Feanorians hold aught that belonged to the Sindar? The actions of Celegorm and Curufin were greatly regretted, and a letter of apology from the brothers was produced. Everyone had gone a little mad, or more than a little, after Dagor Bragollach, they explained.
Dior listened to the arguments calmly, speaking only briefly to reject everything offered. The Silmaril, set in the Nauglamir, seemed to shine especially brightly. Finally, he wearied of the embassy and of his counsellors' craven advice. He rose from his throne and strode forward to stand eye to eye with the Noldo, who apparently had wax in his ears.
"We want nothing that you hold in your bloody hands, Kinslayer."
Erestor flushed. "Since you name me so, I will say that you should carefully consider the implications of your words. For it is your lives we hold in our hands."
Dior smiled. "How arrogant, how typical of your people, to think so. But you are not as mighty as you believe. If you enter Doriath armed, a power greater than yours will strike down every one of your bloodyhanded warriors. Not one will be left. You are warned."
The eyes two handspans from Erestor's face were radiant with confidence, and no little power. In them could be seen Melian and Luthien, Beren and Thingol. But they belonged to a boy who acted his age. Tall and well-formed, but a boy nonetheless. Why did the regents not correct him? Could Dior be King of the Sindar in fact and not just in name? Confusion turned to sickening horror with the realization that there were no regents! Witless Moriquendi!
Only one gambit was left.
"You are brave, Lord, and I do not doubt that you would lay down your life to protect your people, and that which your parents wrested from the Iron Crown. But - " he gestured at the Sinda counsellors, "would you lay down their lives to protect only the latter? And also those of the less mighty among your people? Will you make the choice of Olwë?"
Dior turned his back on the arrogant fool. The Kinslayers would not listen even to the bluntest of warnings, and could no longer hear the Song. He pitied them. For Thingol's heir knew, as certainly as he knew that water flowed downhill, that the sons of Feänor would never regain the Silmaril of Doriath. And he knew that he had naught to fear.
A/N: Dior was about 36 years old when he died. Why he was (ruling) King of the Sindar at that age, I do not know.
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