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“I know the Chaining,” Gwethrinil says.
Maedhros goes still, as though something in his soul is frozen over.
“Would you use it?” he asks.
“I could, perhaps. I do not know if I have the power.”
That is not quite what Maedhros meant. Gwethrinil, of course, knows it. Her eyes are steady, still as a forest pool and unwavering. There is no judgement in them, nor really, a question. She reminds him horribly of Sauron, beautiful as a sword is beautiful, beautiful as death.
There is no question in her eyes, resolute and unyielding, and yet she is asking him. She is asking him, as though his judgement is to be trusted, to be followed even now.
They are fading. Too many of them are fading, all of them, perhaps, eventually. Save Maedhros and Maglor, bound by their oath. And Gwethrinil, maybe; Maedhros does not know if a Chaining can be made permanent, but if it can be then certainly Sauron did so with Gwethrinil.
Maglor looks between them, confused. He has sung all evening, in his attempts to strengthen the spirits of those worst off. Maedhros had to command him to rest ere his throat was made raw and he collapsed from weariness. They have lost three already, they cannot lose too many more, not and hope to survive the roving bands of orcs that haunt all the land now. And perhaps they would deserve it, would deserve to die out here of despair and deprivation, but they have the twins with them, Elwing’s children.
“With consent, only,” Maedhros says.
“Of course,” says Gwethrinil, “Aewen can ask.”
Maedhros nods ascent, and Aewen stands from where she has been scribbling sums in the dirt. He does not know what they have left to keep account of, but perhaps his own ignorance is reason enough for Aewen to keep careful track.
Consent, true consent for this, cannot be given. One cannot know what it is to have one’s fea defiled so until it is done, and even for those who have felt it before, how truly can they choose this? How when their very souls have already chosen, when no other choice is possible? But better that Aewen ask than Gwethrinil or Maedhros, or even Maglor who would not know what he is asking. To Aewen they will be able to say no.
Five of those closest to death agree. Seven refuse. Two are too far gone to give an answer. Maglor suggests that they should be counted among the five, that with no clear answer, it is better to try to save them than not.
“No,” Gwethrinil says, her voice ringing with power for a moment so that even Maglor is brought up short.
“You do not know what you speak of, brother, and I am glad of it,” Maedhros says, his rough voice far gentler than her melodious one.
They bring the five (Maedhros cannot help but think of them as victims) into the center of camp, beside the fire.
Gwethrinil sings in the black speech, the words like broken granite, shattering the air. She is perfectly precise, skilled, she sings to the five elves lying beside the fire, and no one else. But even so, Maedhros feels himself transported, the flickering firelight harsher, redder, the overcast sky transformed into the utter dark of Sauron’s forge.
It is not quite enough to override his instincts. He intercepts the knife a fraction of a moment before it reaches Gwethrinil’s throat, his hand fully enclosing the too small wrist. The child dangles there for a moment, his eyes blown wide, before Maedhros carefully lowers him to the ground. Gwethrinil barely flinches and does not cease singing.
Maedhros turns then, and looks to find the other twin. The twisting shadows, more solid than they ought to be in their attunement to the Black speech, seem to bend to hide the second twin from view. But when Maedhros meets his eyes, the boy straightens defiantly, and his eyes blaze with that not-quite treelight of theirs.
They are so young. So very small. Far too young for their haunted fear and trained stealth. Far, far too young to attempt murder.
“While I appreciate that you have good reason to want us dead,” Maedhros says, as mildly as he can manage, “There are times and places for such an attempt far more likely to produce a success. And there are far better targets than Gwethrinil, who is one of the few among us that has done you no wrong.”
“It’s evil,” the first boy says. Maedhros is not sure whether he refers to the song, or Gwethrinil herself, but either way Maedhros cannot, in honesty, dispute it, not in this moment.
“It’s all right, little ones. The method may be… unorthodox, but she is helping them,” Maglor says, ignorant enough to choose to believe what he says is true.
“Listen,” says the second twin (he really should learn which is which. Maglor has tied ribbons to their wrists, one golden and the other blue, but he does not know what they signify), “She’s binding them, not allowing them to die.”
The first boy, who still holds the knife, so Maedhros still holds his wrist fast, turns back toward Gwethrinil, his brow furrowing in concentration.
“She has not the strength for it,” he says.
“She has not the right sort of strength,” his brother says. He bites his lip, and looks up to meet Maedhros’s eyes across the fire. It is the first time that either of the children have looked him in the eyes, but the boy does it unflinchingly, not unafraid exactly, but wholly undaunted, his gaze piercing.
“They chose this willingly?” he asks.
“Yes,” Maedhros says.
The boy nods, decisively, and then the twins are staring at each other, clearly speaking mind to mind. Arguing mind to mind, the second boy’s expression remaining steadfast in its stubbornness, while the first goes through stages of horror, dismay and frustration.
“Fine,” the child says at last, and drops his knife. (Maedhros swiftly moves his foot so as not to be impaled.) Then he begins to sing.
He doesn’t know the words, of course, but he weaves his own voice in support of Gwethrinil’s, and Maedhros can feel the power thread through the air.
The second twin takes up Maglor’s harp and begins to strum chords. The three of them, Gwethrinil and two very small elflings who are more than elflings, make music, and it is no longer only horrible, but beautiful, and all the more abhorrent for it.
“Oh,” said Maglor, finally understanding, “We must stop them.”
But it is working now, the power of the twins’ maiar heritage doing what Gwethrinil alone could not.
“Don’t,” Maedhros says.
“It goes against the music,” Maglor says.
“Of course it does,” says Maedhros.
“They are children,” Maglor says.
“They understand,” Maedhros says, “They understood at once.”
Understood, and were willing to kill for it, were willing to die for it. And it is wrong that children should understand it. It is worse that they should commit it, this horrible perversion of the enemy’s. But they cannot undo the knowing, and they cannot undo the doing now either. Better that they finish what they have started, then at least the elves will live, and then maybe the children will have a chance at living also. How many horrors will they commit, in the name of living? It is the same horrible logic that Maglor had used to take the twins in the first place, after all.
Maglor must perceive something of his thought (Maedhros’s thoughts do not spill easily from his mind or his face, but Maglor is his brother, and the last of his family in middle earth). “I did not think I would bring them to this.”
“You did not think at all,” Maedhros says, unjustly. Even Maedhros is not yet ready to slay children, even as he knows that to do so would be the only option left to do right by them.