Exploring Westernesse [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

Russandol

Míril found herself standing behind the Great Gate in the Hall of Tapestries. Vairë had snuck her in a few moments before. It was dark and brooding in the Halls. Corridor after corridor ran side by side, with rooms spaced evenly. It ran on forever, or at least as far to forever as Míril could investigate. She had been given specific directions to her target.

The dark slate floors and grey stone walls were uninviting to say the least, and the iron bar doors were reminiscent of a prison. She supposed this place was indeed like a prison, a place to hold those not yet ready to be placed out in Aman. After all, one became “released” from the halls, just like release from prison.

What surprised her was that every room was shrouded from her sight. Though they were iron bar doors, she could not see through them, as if some kind of mist lingered there. None were visible until she came to her destination.

In the center of the floor, cross-legged and head bowed low, was a man. His red hair was shiny despite the rest of him looking simply… tired. She could not see his face. An overwhelming sense of pity washed over her like a wave. Míril should've hated this elf; he had committed all three kinslayings and stolen a Silmaril.

But as she looked at his hunched over form, she realized this was also the elf who killed himself. This was an elf so overcome by pain he leapt into a fiery chasm to his death. This was Maglor’s brother, her distant uncle. Lady Nienna had taught her pity.

“Maedhros,” she whispered, kneeling down and placing her hands on the vertical cast iron bars.

He made no movement. She recalled what Maglor had told her and decided it time to try. Reaching into her sack, she pulled out the lyre Maglor had gifted to her in Middle Earth. Sitting with her side against the door, she began to play.

“First of seven, once Elven king
Weilded sword with left hand swing.
His hair as brilliant as scarlet fire.
He led his folk when times were dire.
But knowing when to step away,
He gave the crown to uncle fey.”

Míril saw Maedhros’ fingers twitch.

“Befriended cousin when all in doubt
That friendship between these kin could sprout.
Of Findekáno he did think
Beside the shores as ships did sink.
But no hope he felt for his long lost friend
Fearing Fingon would meet his end
In the Helcaraxë icy cold
Yet he knew his kin were rightly bold.”

Maedhros raised his head slightly, cocking it to the side as he listened. Still she could not see his eyes.

“He took his place as elven king
Though his father's death did sting.
Yet not long after, orcs played a game.
Stole him away, and none there came
To save their king upon the mount
Save cousin Fingon, who did not discount
Their friendship of long times past
And there he was rescued then at last.”

Maedhros raised his face and looked at last upon Míril. A question was in his eyes. Míril continued.

“Upon return he bowed his head
To the half brother his father wanted dead
Recognizing at then last
The folly of their oathsworn task
Yet even brothers here did scorn
But Maedhros stood there, tall and worn.”

Maedhros began to scoot towards her, not believing she was real. Still, Míril sang.

“Through many years, he lived his life.
Beneath the trees, beneath their light.
But also here upon Middle Earth,
He found his mettle, he found his worth.
Yet still the oath drove him ever onward
And at last he grabbed the jewel so honored.
Burning his only remaining hand,
He saw no action, no other plan,
Than to leap into the fire
Where a last he died in flaming pyre.”