Chapter 37
The war dragged on for as long as a century. When the last wisp of gunpowder smoke cleared over the Anfauglith Wasteland, what remained was not cheers of victory, but a dead silence and an all-consuming grief. Nirneth Arnoldiad, the War of Tears—the name weighed like the heaviest lead weight on the hearts of every survivor. Its brutality far surpassed all previous wars combined.
Corpses piled high, blanketing the vast wasteland. Blood soaked the earth, staining the grayish-white gravel a sickening dark brown. The air was thick with the inextricable odor of death, rust, and burnt flesh. Crows and scavenging beasts circled and gnawed among the corpses, making a chilling sound. The survivors stumbled across the battlefield like the walking dead, searching for the remains of their loved ones and comrades. Muffled sobs, heartbreaking wails, and the low moans of the lost merged into a sea of despair, as if even the Valar wept over the endless sacrifices.
Meereen stood at the edge of the shattered, makeshift wounded camp. The once bustling crowd now seemed singularly thin. His face was stained with blood and dust, and his eyes stared blankly at the hell on earth. Too many familiar faces had vanished; the warriors of the House of Hador had been nearly annihilated. The roar of Húrin and the image of Huor falling lingered in his mind. Many of the elves of Nargothrond, whom he had personally cared for and shared food with, now lay quietly on the cold earth. A crushing wave of grief washed over his already weary heart like an icy tide, making it almost impossible to breathe. The shadow of war still lingered, and the pain of losing his friends was already etched deep within him.
Fate did not give him a chance to breathe. Before the dust of the war settled, a new storm caused by the secret he carried had quietly arrived.
In Himring, Fëanorion's fortress, the atmosphere was as heavy as the silence before a storm. Maglor practically rushed into Maedhros's council chamber, his face pale, his eyes mingled with shock, anger, and a hint of unspeakable pain, his usual composure gone.
"Maedhros!" said Maglor, with a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. "The Silmaril is found, but it is not in the crown of Morgoth."
Maedhros looked up suddenly, a sharp light flashing in his eyes: "What? Where?"
"In Meereen." Maglor uttered the name with difficulty. "Three! He has hidden them for decades! Sauron said it himself on the battlefield... I..." He could not say any more, Sauron's words full of malicious pleasure echoed in his ears again.
"Meereen?!" Maedhros stood up suddenly, his face full of disbelief, "That human? Hid the Silmarils for decades?! How is this possible..." The news was like thunder, leaving him speechless for a moment. Maedhros immediately summoned all his brothers in Himring.
When Caranthir heard Maedhros repeating the news brought by Maglor, his calculating face twisted instantly, and he slammed his fist on the stone table: "Meereen?! That kid?! Right under our noses?! In Shagerian... I didn't search him thoroughly. Damn it, damn it!" He was so upset that he almost vomited blood, feeling that he had missed a great opportunity.
Celegorm was furious, pacing the hall like an enraged lion. "The Silmaril was with him. We escorted him all the way here, and we've been in the same room with him for so long. So many encounters! And yet... we didn't even notice it?! He's hiding it so well." He was shaking with rage, and slammed his fist down on the table, cracking the solid stone. Curufin's eyes were terrifyingly dark. He glanced coldly at his brothers, finally resting his gaze on Maedhros. "Brother, there's no point in saying this now. The Silmaril is right before our eyes, within our grasp! What are we waiting for?"
The youngest twins, Amrod and Amras, also looked at Maedhros, their eyes filled with the pain burned by the oath and the desire for the gem: "Brother, what should we do?"
The knowledge that the Silmaril lay within sight was like the most powerful catalyst, instantly igniting the cursed sworn to madness, already driven by war and long-lasting torture. The soul-scorching agony intensified, and the desire for the Silmaril was magnified immeasurably. Fëanor's sons almost immediately reached a consensus: Meereen would never voluntarily surrender the Silmaril. How could a mere human willingly give up a treasure that even Morgoth coveted? Negotiation was futile.
"Take it now," roared Celegorm. "Before Finrod reacts, while he is still cleaning up the mess on the battlefield. Besiege Nargothrond and force him to hand over his host. Or we can search for him ourselves."
Maedhros still had a bit of rationality, and he frowned: "Celegon, calm down! Nargothrond is not defenseless. Finrod and Fingolfin will never sit idly by and watch us attack their allies. This will trigger a civil war." He knew very well the serious consequences of this move.
"Civil war?!" Celegorm sneered, his eyes flashing with madness. "For the Silmaril, to lift this damned curse, what does it matter if our own kin stand in our way?! Maedhros, we've already sacrificed too much! The Silmaril is right before our eyes, yet you still hesitate?! Maglor!" He turned sharply to his silent brother, "Speak now! Don't you want to take back the Silmaril and end this endless suffering?!"
All eyes were fixed on Maglor. The singer's face was pale, his hands unconsciously clenched. His inner struggle was intense: his desire for the Silmaril, his hope for the curse to be lifted, were real; but was Sauron's provocation true? Was Meereen... that human he had instinctively drawn to, whose songs had tried to confuse him, whose comfort his soul had secretly longed for, truly so deliberately deceiving and betraying? Deep down, he still resisted the harshest possible treatment of Meereen.
"I..." Maglor opened his mouth, his voice dry, "I... I don't know how true Sauron's words are... Maybe..."
"Maybe what?!" Curufin's sneer was like an icicle, interrupting him. "Your 'precious little darling' never cared about your life or death, allowing you to be tortured by the oath for decades. Now, you are still considering him? How ridiculous."
Maglor felt as if he had been severely whipped. He suddenly closed his eyes, lowered his head in pain, and said nothing. Curufin's words were like a knife piercing the softest and most conflicted part of his heart.
Seeing Maglor's silence, the last shred of hesitation vanished from Maedhros's eyes. The pain of his brothers, the burning of their oath, and the unwavering need for the Silmaril overwhelmed all else. He took a deep breath and made his decision: "Gather all available forces! Defend Nargothrond and demand Finrod's surrender of Meereen and the Silmaril. If they refuse, attack."
When news of Fëanorian's army suddenly appearing like a dark cloud outside Nargothrond, completely surrounding it, reached Finrod, still dealing with the aftermath of the Western Front, the usually gentle and wise Elf King flew into a rage! "What?! Sons of Fëanor?! How dare they?!" Finrod's voice trembled with shock and anger. "The battle has just ended, and the bodies of countless kin are still warm! How dare they take advantage of my weak rear and attack Nargothrond? For Meereen?!" He could hardly believe his ears. Nargothrond's defenders, already weakened by the reinforcements, were now surrounded by heavy troops and in imminent danger. Fëanor's demand was a naked threat: surrender Meereen.
Meereen was right beside Finrod. The moment he heard the news, his blood froze, and a chill ran from his feet to his head. Retribution had finally arrived. The secret of the Silmaril had finally brought calamity to his friends and to Nargothrond, a land he cherished. A tremendous sense of guilt and despair gripped him.
"They shall not," Finrod said to Meereen in a stern voice, his golden eyes burning with anger. "I will never hand you over to those madmen whose minds have been burned by their oaths. They must pay the price for their mistakes and madness." He immediately ordered the remaining, exhausted troops to gather and prepare to return to Nargothrond to support it, even if it was a futile attempt.
Finrod sent someone to quickly inform High King Fingolfin of this matter. Fingolfin was also shocked when he heard the news, even more angry and heartbroken than when he heard about the disastrous defeat in the Battle of Tears: "What? The sons of Fëanor are actually going to draw their swords against their own relatives and allies who just fought side by side at this time, when we have just suffered such a heavy blow?! Are they crazy?! For that damn oath, are they going to abandon even the last bit of reason and family affection?!" Fingolfin felt a deep sadness and powerlessness.
Just as Finrod was anxiously mobilizing his troops, preparing for a desperate fight, Meereen, who had remained silent until then, suddenly moved. He leaped up, grabbed Finrod's arm, and cried out in a voice filled with unprecedented determination: "Finrod, no! Please don't start a war."
Finrod looked at him in amazement.
Meereen was in tears, but his voice was extremely clear: "Let me go back with you, I will go back by myself. I am willing to hand over the Silmarils as long as they are willing to withdraw their troops and as long as Nargothrond can be safe, I am willing to hand it over." He could not bear to see Nargothrond destroyed because of himself, and he could not bear to see Finrod involved in the war again for him and fight against his relatives.
Finrod's heart ached as he saw the deep pain and sacrifice in Meereen's eyes. He understood Meereen's intentions; this was practically the only way to avoid further bloodshed. He sighed heavily and held Meereen's hand tightly. "I promise to take you back, but you must promise me not to make any decisions that would harm yourself! Your life is equally precious!"
Meereen nodded vigorously.
Finrod, with Meereen and the exhausted army of Nargothrond, marched back day and night as fast as he could. When they finally reached the heights near Nargothrond, they saw a tense standoff: Fëanorion's army was ready for battle, and the defenders of Nargothrond were on the walls, holding their ground in a tense atmosphere.
Maglor slowly walked out from Fëanorion's army. He avoided Finrod's angry gaze and looked directly at Meereen. His voice was low and complex, with a barely perceptible tremor: "Meereen, do you... possess the three Silmarils?"
All eyes were on Meereen. He took a deep breath, straightened his spine, looked directly at Maglor, and answered clearly, "Yes, I do possess the three Silmarils."
Maglor's body swayed slightly, as if the last shred of hope had been shattered. He closed his eyes in pain and stopped talking.
"You despicable thief!" Celegorm could no longer contain himself, shouting angrily from behind the formation. "You stole the treasure of my Fëanor family, hid it for decades, and watched us suffer the curse. You deserve to die!"
"Hold your peace, Celegorm!" Finrod's voice was like an icy sword. "Your actions, seizing your allies and besieging your kinsmen's city, are no more noble than those of thieves! You are the ones who are profaning the blood of your kinsmen!"
"Enough," said Curufin in a cold voice. "Hand over the Silmaril, or Nargothrond will be laid waste today."
Seeing that the conflict was about to break out, the situation was slipping in the direction Sauron most hoped for. Meereen was tired of the endless accusations and threats. He used all his strength and shouted loudly, his voice drowning out all the arguments: "Okay! I agree to return the Silmaril to you!"
The whole place fell silent for a moment. All the sons of Fëanorion were stunned. Even Celegorm's curse was stuck in his throat. They did not expect that Meereen would agree to return it so readily.
"But," Meereen's voice was firm, his gaze sweeping across every Fëan's face, "I have one request. After you have lifted the curse of the oath, you must send the Silmarils to Aman and give them to the Valar to repair the Two Trees. This is the meaning of their creation, and their only rightful destination."
Celegorm was stunned for a moment, then sneered: "Repairing the Two Trees? Absurd! This is the most precious treasure of our Fëanor family! Why…"
"You may proceed as you please and attack Nargothrond immediately." Meereen interrupted him fearlessly, his voice carrying a strange penetrating power. "But remember, the more blood of your kin your hands are stained, the less the jewel will acknowledge you as its owner, and the further you are from fulfilling your oath. You will only be cursed more deeply, and will never be freed." His words were like a prophecy, striking heavily on the hearts of Fëanorion's sons.
Curufin was about to protest, but Maglor jerked his head up. He gazed at Meereen, his eyes, once filled with pain and rage, now filled with a complex mixture of shock, a glimmer of hope, and a deep inquiry. He raised a hand to stop Curufin, then spoke slowly and clearly, "On behalf of the House of Fëanor, I grant your request. If we can lift the curse of the oath, we will send the Silmarils to Aman to repair the Two Trees. By... my father Fëanor." The last word weighed heavily on his lips.
Meereen looked at Maglor and nodded. "Very well, I will go to Himring myself and return the Silmaril to you."
"But to ensure fairness," Meereen said immediately, "I request that Queen Melian act as an intermediary and witness this act in person!" Melian's status as a Maia made her impartial and neutral, and her testimony carried irrefutable weight. Maglor was somewhat surprised, but considering Melian's status and position, she was indeed the most suitable person. He was silent for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Yes, we will wait for you in Himring in seven days, with Queen Melian as witness."
The agreement was reached, and Fëanorion's army retreated from Nargothrond like a receding tide. On the way back, Celegorm remained indignant, "Maglor! Why did you agree to his terms? We could have just captured him and taken the Silmaril back, so why did you go to such lengths and give it away?"
Maglor didn't answer, only staring silently toward Himring in the distance. The setting sun stretched his shadow long. He knew that from this moment on, the invisible bridge between him and Meereen, perhaps once a tenuous connection, had been completely severed. The human boy who had listened quietly to his harp and song by the campfire, whose voice had once brought a moment of peace to his soul, was gone forever. The future held only cold dealings and an unbridgeable chasm. An indescribable sense of loss and bitterness weighed heavily on his heart.
Finrod sent messengers to Doriath quickly. When Queen Melian heard the whole story and Meereen's request, a trace of pity flashed in her insightful eyes. She agreed to be a witness without hesitation.
Seven days later. Shimrin.
A strange, oppressive silence reigned over this fortress of rock and steel. Inside the great hall of the magnificent palace, the atmosphere was as heavy as solidified lead.
The seven sons of Fëanor gathered together: Maedhros stood in the front with a gloomy face; Celegorm folded his arms, his eyes as sharp as a hawk; Curufin had a faint sneer on the corner of his mouth; Caranthir had a blank expression, but his eyes were extremely sharp; the twins Amrod and Amras pursed their lips, looking a little nervous; and Maglor stood at the back, lowering his head slightly, avoiding the incoming gazes.
In the center of the hall stood Queen Melian, shrouded in a hazy aura, her aura noble and detached, as if she didn't belong in this bustling world. Her very presence brought an invisible pressure and a guarantee of justice.
The heavy hall door slowly opened, and Meereen entered alone. He wore no armor, only simple traveling robes. His face bore the weariness of a long journey, but his eyes were remarkably calm, even a look of relief. He walked slowly to the center of the hall, standing opposite Fëanor's sons and to the side of Queen Melian.
Everyone's eyes were focused on him, filled with scrutiny, suspicion, desire, and cold hostility.
Meereen looked at no one else but Queen Melian, and nodded slightly. Then, taking a deep breath, he slowly and solemnly took out from his pocket the three Silmarils, for which countless people in Beleriand had lived and died, and which carried endless light and curse.
The entire dim hall was completely illuminated by an indescribable, pure, and vast radiance. It was the flame of the Two Trees, the starlight from the birth of the universe, the embodiment of supreme creation and beauty. The golden glow of Laurelin and the silver light of Telperion intertwined and flowed like a flowing river of light, flooding the cold stone walls and dispelling all shadows. Even the sons of Fëanorion subconsciously held their breath, their eyes filled with intoxication and shock. This light was so sacred, so beautiful, that it seemed to purify all the filth of the world.
Meereen held the three brilliant stars in his hands. His voice was clear and calm, yet it carried a power that penetrated the soul, echoing in the silent hall: "I, Meereen, today in Himring, in the presence of Queen Melian, voluntarily return these three Silmarils to the House of Fëanor."
Every word was like a hammer, hammering down on the hearts of everyone present. The words "voluntary" and "return" were filled with complex and inexpressible meanings to the Fenorian brothers.
After saying that, Meereen took a step forward and handed the three gems carrying endless glory and heavy fate to Maedhros who was standing in the front.
Maedhros stretched out his only remaining hand, which had been tortured by Morgoth. When his hand touched the surface of the cold gem that seemed to contain endless heat, an indescribable throbbing flashed in his eyes. In silence, he took the Silmaril from Meereen very slowly and carefully.
Three stars fell into the hands of the House of Fëanor, and the light danced in the palm of Maedhros, reflecting the deep scars and gloomy expression on his face.
There was no cheering, no celebration. The Seven Sons of Fëanorion gazed upon the lost and recovered family treasure in Maedhros's hands, the crystallization of their father's soul, the source of the curse that had plagued them for centuries, bringing them endless pain and madness. Instead of the expected ecstasy, they felt an indescribable mixture of immense emptiness, a heavy burden, and a glimmer of relief. For these treasures, they had betrayed the Valar, stained their hands with the blood of their kin, and suffered under the dark curse... Now, they had finally returned.
The youngest twins, Amrod and Amras, looked at the brilliant light and thought of their father, Fëanor, of the carefree days in Tirion, and of the blood, tears, and sacrifices they had endured. Unable to hold back their tears, they streamed down their faces. They were not tears of joy, but tears of belated, heavy sorrow for this long, cruel, cursed quest.
Maglor looked at his weeping brothers, then at the familiar yet unfamiliar light in Maedhros's hand. Finally, his gaze rested on Meereen. The human, who had returned the Silmaril and now appeared unusually calm and alone, felt something shattered within Maglor's heart, leaving only an endless void and a cold echo.
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