Part Five: A Word to the Wise
With an increasing atmosphere of disquiet, eventually you can stand it no longer. Calling on the house of Elwing proves more simple than you'd expect, the single guard posted by the door recognising you instantly. Of course, it's hard not to given the color of your skin and the red robe you have become famous for. You wait patiently as he enters the house and returns a minute later.
"Lady Elwing will see you," he confirms. "If you have weapons, leave them with me."
You give him a withering expression and momentarily lock eyes. He concedes the point with a slight droop of his shoulders and duck of the head, then leads you inside. You quickly find yourself in the same room you met with Earendil in, months before. Elwing is standing by the head, one delicate hand resting on the wooden surface. She inclines her head. "Welcome to my household, wizard," she says. But one detail catches your attention.
"You aren't wearing the necklace," you remark in surprise. "But it's a necklace everybody seems worried about." You catch the flicker of offense that fleetingly crosses her face, and you make a conscious effort to relax. "Sorry," you say. "Thank you for seeing me."
"If you have come to discuss the Silmaril you are not the first," she says shortly. In the background you see two small children dart out of sight through a doorway, though Elwing taking her seat quickly brings your focus back to her. "Do you also ask me to surrender it?"
"These demands," you say slowly. "That you hand it over to them. By all accounts they will not hesitate to take it by force. Why risk it for a piece of jewelry?"
"The Silmaril has caused much grief," she says sadly. "To wear it is a heavy thing. Yet also I would keep it from the Sons of Fëanor, as some small weregild for all their crimes. Here it is a thing of hope, yet it would serve no such purpose for them. Would they then attempt to wrest the remainder from the Iron Crown itself?"
"The Iron Crown?" you ask, some half-remembered thing tickling at the back of your mind.
"Aye, lad," Telchar said gruffly. "Only once have I heard of my masterworks breaking, and 'twas in the act of prying one of the great jewels from the Iron Crown itself! Reckon that's a trade worth making."
"Morgoth wears the two Silmarils he holds in banded iron," she says a touch bitterly, "for even he lusted after them. But he cannot corrupt those hallowed jewels, for all he destroyed the source of their light. The Noldor mark it as a great tragedy, and perhaps it is so, but my heart is cold to the Sons of Fëanor and the plight of the Silmarils."
You shift in your seat. "It seems to me that they are less holy than they are cursed," you venture. "I hear about the atrocities committed in their name, but little else."
Elwing shrugs artlessly and you perceive a strained expression around the edges of her eyes, something more visible for her otherwise pristine beauty. "Forgive me," she says. "I am being a poor host."
"I brought it up," you reply apologetically, understanding how abrupt a shift in conversation signified her discomfort. "It was impolite."
"The fault is mine for rising to the occasion," she demurs. "I worry for my husband, and oft it feels the world has now darkened and closed about me for his absence. But let us talk of lighter things." She rises from her seat, and you admire the effortless posture displayed in the motion. "Wine?" she asks.
"Perhaps a glass," you allow, accepting more for the sake of politeness than actual enthusiasm. But from there you find yourself fascinated by the wistful stories she tells of her childhood, painting a picture of Menegroth so vivid you can near see it before you. Had you not seen the grand stonework of the dwarves and the effortless beauty of Gondolin you would have been unable to grasp what a synthesis of the two might have been like, and you find yourself a touch grieved for its loss.
When the second glass has gone and you are telling her with uncharacteristic nostalgia about the barren beauty of the desert you realise that things really have gone too far for your comfort. You make your excuses and leave, having a far better picture of who Elwing is. There is far more to her than superficial beauty. She will not surrender the Silmaril.
So you prepare. While you can transmute a suit of armor in a pinch, and you do just that for the individual pieces, the strapping and runecraft is somewhat more temperamental and benefits from your undivided attention. Ensuring all the plates properly overlap without impeding your movement takes the best part of a day, even with no forging involved, but as with the sword just a week prior the runes take significantly longer.
When you fought in defence of Gondolin, you saw first hand the impeccable archery and skills of the elves, and the great hill which the city sat on effectively prohibited archery from what you now know to be substantially weaker orcish bows. The potential to actually be fighting them in battle is not one that appeals to you, but if they attack the city with you in it...well. You won't have much of a choice then, will you?
So you work. You innovate new runes that will protect you from arrows beyond simply making your armor invulnerable. The mithril soaks up the magic you need to power such a proactive and wide-ranging ward, and it very nearly drains your reserves completely dry in the making. To create a rune which channels raw thaumaturgy to totally disintegrate any incoming arrows is no small thing.
It is fortunate, then, that you have a full nights sleep. When sunlight peeks in through the (new) glass windows of your shared home, you are roused to the sound of a horn. You open the door in your nightshirt to see several elves go running past. "The Sons!" one of them cries aloud. "The Sons of Fëanor are here!"
You curse and slam the door, kneeling down and pulling up the chest lid where you stowed your newly created armor just the day before. The mithril breastplate, dents and all, sits on the top of the pile like a mirror. Your face looks grim as you reach for it, the mottled burns expanded by the curve of the reflection.
"The Sons are here?" Miriel gasps, looking out the window. "No!" Her face crumples and her hand goes to her mouth, her whole body fraught with tension. "Not again," she whispers. "No, not again. I can't do this again." She turns to see you, and stills. "My lord?"
"I'm not your lord," you grunt, lifting the armor from the chest and spilling it onto the bed. "Help me with these straps." You pull of the nightshirt to her gasp of shock, ignoring her as you pull on a thin shirt and struggle into the padding that will protect you beneath the armor. Then you have the straps. "Miriel," you ask. "Please."
That seems to jolt her out of her surprise and dread, and she hurries over to pull through the leather which holds the plate against your body. All the while through the window you can see the gleam of maille pass by and heading towards the walls. Miriel's fingers thread the straps through the buckles with the dexterity of a seamstress, and when they cinch tight you test them and give her a nod.
"Thank you," you say sincerely. It would have been a pain to try and get it on by yourself. "You should try and get somewhere safe."
"I'll go to the docks," she whispers, folding her hands together and drawing together her composure. "But nowhere is safe from them." She steps back. "Be safe, master wizard." Then she is up the stairs and into her room, preparing to flee her home.
"Well," you mutter grimly. "Let's get started." The swordbelt buckles round your waist and as you pick up your staff you can feel the stored magic there almost thrumming. You lay a hand on the door and push it open. In the intervening minutes the streets have become more chaotic, the narrow paths suddenly filled with people trying to get away from the walls and towards the center of the Havens, for all the good it will do them. You proceed to go in the opposite direction, but then a cry catches your attention.
"Master Figwit!" an elf shouts, arm up to catch your attention and steps swift as he follows after you. "Ecthelion of the Fountain summons you to the wall! He bids me take you to him!"
"Lead the way," you reply instantly, and the elf nods sharply. Rather than taking the closest route you find yourself being led around the inner circumference of the wall, and the noise of the population dies away. The walls themselves seem deathly quiet. Eventually your guide stops by one of the short stairs up to the top of the wall, a rather sad distance to climb in comparison to Gondolin's fortifications, but you follow his wordless invitation.
At the top, as promised, is Ecthelion. He and the rest of the soldiers occupying the top of the wall are looking out and over into the tall reeds, and the moment your head surmounts the parapet you can tell why. On the other side, arrayed in grim and silent legion, is a veritable panoply of armor and weapons. The only reason you can't make a count are the thick reeds which once hid the Havens obscuring your view, but you can guess at thousands. At least. But here, at the front a mere dozen meters from the base of the wall, is a standard bearer carrying the emblem of the House of Fëanor. Beside him is a well-armored and regal elf with a helmet under one arm, russet red hair free in the slight breeze.
"Here is the famed wizard!" he says good-naturedly. "Greetings!" He gives you a short half bow, free hand against his chestplate. "I had hoped to have speech with you. I am-"
"Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor," you interrupt. "Yes, I know." The hair was rather distinctive, and his fine half-plate already advertised him as being of high rank.
"Then our introductions are finished," he replies. "I have spoken with Ecthelion at some small length, yet 'twas you I had hoped to see." He straightens up, and you can see nothing but earnestness in his face. "I have heard great tales of your valour and strength in the arts of the wise, and I would not wish to contend with you needlessly - though I shall, and so shall all with me if need be."
You glance at Ecthelion, but he only stares ahead and out over the heads of the army arrayed beneath you, his lips pinched in a thin line. By the time you look back, Maedhros has had time to continue.
"Hear me," Maedhros says. "I have come to reclaim my birthright, the Silmaril wrought by my father's hand and unjustly stolen by the accursed Morgoth Bauglir. We have sworn a holy oath before the Valar themselves to reclaim them from all other hands, and we have bled sorely for that oath."
"In the stories I've heard it wasn't you who reclaimed the jewel," you point out mildly. "But I've heard plenty about your attempts."
"Beren won the Silmaril by great valour," Maedhros agreed. "His love was pure and bravery worthy of a prize. Thus we stayed our hands until he had passed beyond the circles of the world. Yet if a man steals from a thief, that does not make it his. The Silmaril is ours by right of blood, and our Oath demands we suffer no others to hold it. You have great power - I beg you, do not oppose us and stain these grounds with blood."
"Ecthelion?" you murmur, turning your head slightly. Though he doesn't reply his hand tightening on the hilt of his newly-reforged sword spells his opinion quite clearly.
"There are scarce a thousand of you here on these walls," Maedhros begs. "Here we have twice ten thousand! All this for want of the Silmaril. Wizard, heed wisdom if you are wise!"
"Lady Elwing will see you," he confirms. "If you have weapons, leave them with me."
You give him a withering expression and momentarily lock eyes. He concedes the point with a slight droop of his shoulders and duck of the head, then leads you inside. You quickly find yourself in the same room you met with Earendil in, months before. Elwing is standing by the head, one delicate hand resting on the wooden surface. She inclines her head. "Welcome to my household, wizard," she says. But one detail catches your attention.
"You aren't wearing the necklace," you remark in surprise. "But it's a necklace everybody seems worried about." You catch the flicker of offense that fleetingly crosses her face, and you make a conscious effort to relax. "Sorry," you say. "Thank you for seeing me."
"If you have come to discuss the Silmaril you are not the first," she says shortly. In the background you see two small children dart out of sight through a doorway, though Elwing taking her seat quickly brings your focus back to her. "Do you also ask me to surrender it?"
"These demands," you say slowly. "That you hand it over to them. By all accounts they will not hesitate to take it by force. Why risk it for a piece of jewelry?"
"The Silmaril has caused much grief," she says sadly. "To wear it is a heavy thing. Yet also I would keep it from the Sons of Fëanor, as some small weregild for all their crimes. Here it is a thing of hope, yet it would serve no such purpose for them. Would they then attempt to wrest the remainder from the Iron Crown itself?"
"The Iron Crown?" you ask, some half-remembered thing tickling at the back of your mind.
"Aye, lad," Telchar said gruffly. "Only once have I heard of my masterworks breaking, and 'twas in the act of prying one of the great jewels from the Iron Crown itself! Reckon that's a trade worth making."
"Morgoth wears the two Silmarils he holds in banded iron," she says a touch bitterly, "for even he lusted after them. But he cannot corrupt those hallowed jewels, for all he destroyed the source of their light. The Noldor mark it as a great tragedy, and perhaps it is so, but my heart is cold to the Sons of Fëanor and the plight of the Silmarils."
You shift in your seat. "It seems to me that they are less holy than they are cursed," you venture. "I hear about the atrocities committed in their name, but little else."
Elwing shrugs artlessly and you perceive a strained expression around the edges of her eyes, something more visible for her otherwise pristine beauty. "Forgive me," she says. "I am being a poor host."
"I brought it up," you reply apologetically, understanding how abrupt a shift in conversation signified her discomfort. "It was impolite."
"The fault is mine for rising to the occasion," she demurs. "I worry for my husband, and oft it feels the world has now darkened and closed about me for his absence. But let us talk of lighter things." She rises from her seat, and you admire the effortless posture displayed in the motion. "Wine?" she asks.
"Perhaps a glass," you allow, accepting more for the sake of politeness than actual enthusiasm. But from there you find yourself fascinated by the wistful stories she tells of her childhood, painting a picture of Menegroth so vivid you can near see it before you. Had you not seen the grand stonework of the dwarves and the effortless beauty of Gondolin you would have been unable to grasp what a synthesis of the two might have been like, and you find yourself a touch grieved for its loss.
When the second glass has gone and you are telling her with uncharacteristic nostalgia about the barren beauty of the desert you realise that things really have gone too far for your comfort. You make your excuses and leave, having a far better picture of who Elwing is. There is far more to her than superficial beauty. She will not surrender the Silmaril.
So you prepare. While you can transmute a suit of armor in a pinch, and you do just that for the individual pieces, the strapping and runecraft is somewhat more temperamental and benefits from your undivided attention. Ensuring all the plates properly overlap without impeding your movement takes the best part of a day, even with no forging involved, but as with the sword just a week prior the runes take significantly longer.
When you fought in defence of Gondolin, you saw first hand the impeccable archery and skills of the elves, and the great hill which the city sat on effectively prohibited archery from what you now know to be substantially weaker orcish bows. The potential to actually be fighting them in battle is not one that appeals to you, but if they attack the city with you in it...well. You won't have much of a choice then, will you?
So you work. You innovate new runes that will protect you from arrows beyond simply making your armor invulnerable. The mithril soaks up the magic you need to power such a proactive and wide-ranging ward, and it very nearly drains your reserves completely dry in the making. To create a rune which channels raw thaumaturgy to totally disintegrate any incoming arrows is no small thing.
It is fortunate, then, that you have a full nights sleep. When sunlight peeks in through the (new) glass windows of your shared home, you are roused to the sound of a horn. You open the door in your nightshirt to see several elves go running past. "The Sons!" one of them cries aloud. "The Sons of Fëanor are here!"
You curse and slam the door, kneeling down and pulling up the chest lid where you stowed your newly created armor just the day before. The mithril breastplate, dents and all, sits on the top of the pile like a mirror. Your face looks grim as you reach for it, the mottled burns expanded by the curve of the reflection.
"The Sons are here?" Miriel gasps, looking out the window. "No!" Her face crumples and her hand goes to her mouth, her whole body fraught with tension. "Not again," she whispers. "No, not again. I can't do this again." She turns to see you, and stills. "My lord?"
"I'm not your lord," you grunt, lifting the armor from the chest and spilling it onto the bed. "Help me with these straps." You pull of the nightshirt to her gasp of shock, ignoring her as you pull on a thin shirt and struggle into the padding that will protect you beneath the armor. Then you have the straps. "Miriel," you ask. "Please."
That seems to jolt her out of her surprise and dread, and she hurries over to pull through the leather which holds the plate against your body. All the while through the window you can see the gleam of maille pass by and heading towards the walls. Miriel's fingers thread the straps through the buckles with the dexterity of a seamstress, and when they cinch tight you test them and give her a nod.
"Thank you," you say sincerely. It would have been a pain to try and get it on by yourself. "You should try and get somewhere safe."
"I'll go to the docks," she whispers, folding her hands together and drawing together her composure. "But nowhere is safe from them." She steps back. "Be safe, master wizard." Then she is up the stairs and into her room, preparing to flee her home.
"Well," you mutter grimly. "Let's get started." The swordbelt buckles round your waist and as you pick up your staff you can feel the stored magic there almost thrumming. You lay a hand on the door and push it open. In the intervening minutes the streets have become more chaotic, the narrow paths suddenly filled with people trying to get away from the walls and towards the center of the Havens, for all the good it will do them. You proceed to go in the opposite direction, but then a cry catches your attention.
"Master Figwit!" an elf shouts, arm up to catch your attention and steps swift as he follows after you. "Ecthelion of the Fountain summons you to the wall! He bids me take you to him!"
"Lead the way," you reply instantly, and the elf nods sharply. Rather than taking the closest route you find yourself being led around the inner circumference of the wall, and the noise of the population dies away. The walls themselves seem deathly quiet. Eventually your guide stops by one of the short stairs up to the top of the wall, a rather sad distance to climb in comparison to Gondolin's fortifications, but you follow his wordless invitation.
At the top, as promised, is Ecthelion. He and the rest of the soldiers occupying the top of the wall are looking out and over into the tall reeds, and the moment your head surmounts the parapet you can tell why. On the other side, arrayed in grim and silent legion, is a veritable panoply of armor and weapons. The only reason you can't make a count are the thick reeds which once hid the Havens obscuring your view, but you can guess at thousands. At least. But here, at the front a mere dozen meters from the base of the wall, is a standard bearer carrying the emblem of the House of Fëanor. Beside him is a well-armored and regal elf with a helmet under one arm, russet red hair free in the slight breeze.
"Here is the famed wizard!" he says good-naturedly. "Greetings!" He gives you a short half bow, free hand against his chestplate. "I had hoped to have speech with you. I am-"
"Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor," you interrupt. "Yes, I know." The hair was rather distinctive, and his fine half-plate already advertised him as being of high rank.
"Then our introductions are finished," he replies. "I have spoken with Ecthelion at some small length, yet 'twas you I had hoped to see." He straightens up, and you can see nothing but earnestness in his face. "I have heard great tales of your valour and strength in the arts of the wise, and I would not wish to contend with you needlessly - though I shall, and so shall all with me if need be."
You glance at Ecthelion, but he only stares ahead and out over the heads of the army arrayed beneath you, his lips pinched in a thin line. By the time you look back, Maedhros has had time to continue.
"Hear me," Maedhros says. "I have come to reclaim my birthright, the Silmaril wrought by my father's hand and unjustly stolen by the accursed Morgoth Bauglir. We have sworn a holy oath before the Valar themselves to reclaim them from all other hands, and we have bled sorely for that oath."
"In the stories I've heard it wasn't you who reclaimed the jewel," you point out mildly. "But I've heard plenty about your attempts."
"Beren won the Silmaril by great valour," Maedhros agreed. "His love was pure and bravery worthy of a prize. Thus we stayed our hands until he had passed beyond the circles of the world. Yet if a man steals from a thief, that does not make it his. The Silmaril is ours by right of blood, and our Oath demands we suffer no others to hold it. You have great power - I beg you, do not oppose us and stain these grounds with blood."
"Ecthelion?" you murmur, turning your head slightly. Though he doesn't reply his hand tightening on the hilt of his newly-reforged sword spells his opinion quite clearly.
"There are scarce a thousand of you here on these walls," Maedhros begs. "Here we have twice ten thousand! All this for want of the Silmaril. Wizard, heed wisdom if you are wise!"
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