Here was the truth, Lúthien had not actually expected it to work. She, in fact, had already been drafting her follow-up plan, even as she was carrying her initial plan out. Namely, figuring out exactly which notes she was going to hit in order to make Mandos give her love back to her, as she rode the coattails of Beren’s spirit into the Halls of Waiting with him. Her initial plan had not even really been a plan, just a half-crazed thought that came to her as she stared at his body and the Silmaril in his hand, the object on which they had spent so much time and tears, so much blood and bodies, to finally, finally get, and how none of it mattered because the jewel could not bring Beren back!

Unless, of course, the half-crazed thought went, unless it could. For as Lúthien had watched the eyes of her beloved fading as his spirit left them, she had recalled that supposedly the jewels might not just contain the light of the Two Trees, but that they might also contain some of the fëa of Fëanor himself, he of the spirit so strong that he burned brighter than any other among the Noldor. And was it not also true that an elf’s fëa could sustain another? Primarily, this was used for their children, but comrades in battle had been sometimes known to keep each other alive long enough for a healer to come upon the scene. So perhaps, perhaps…

Although, it should be noted that these thoughts were likely, in truth, the reconstructions of her subconscious flickers that Lúthien had made well after the event when trying to justify to herself why her first reaction to the dead body of her love was to shove the Silmaril into his gaping chest wound, and that her actual thoughts at the time had simply been: “Prove you were worth any of it, you cursed thing!”

But the point was, it was not supposed to work. Except Beren had woken up after. Except, he had gasped for air as soon as the Silmaril had slipped into his body cavity. Except, his chest had then curled shut, his flesh closing and hiding away the light almost entirely, except for where it now shone in his eyes, burning bright like the eyes of the Noldor from across the Sea. Except, when she pressed her ear to his chest, she no longer heard the reassuring rhythm of a heartbeat, but the faintest echo of music like a nightingale’s song. Except, everything. 

She did not regret it, she could not regret it, not for Beren, and certainly not for the Fëanorians who previously she had thought little of in terms of disinterest, and now thought little of in terms of disdain. And yet, that lack of regret did not help her in any way in trying to decide how to best respond to the letter from Maedhros Fëanorian now sitting in front of her, a letter that on the surface merely expressed his sympathy for the treatment she had received from his brothers where his careful political apologies left little room to cry for further recompense, but also underneath carefully couched the question of what exactly had happened to the stone that had started it all. 

But one thing was for certain, Lúthien had been prepared to face Mandos himself to keep Beren at her side. She had, in fact, faced Sauron and Morgoth both to gain the chance to stay with him. Maedhros Fëanorian would not be where she failed now. 

This determination though, sadly, did not save her from the awkwardness of trying to explain in a letter that she had shoved his father’s magic rock into Beren’s chest, and that it was quite possible that in doing so she had hijacked a part of the Fëanorian’s father’s soul to bind Beren back to his body. That remained a problem.

But it then occurred to her that while she certainly was not happy with the Fëanorians at this moment, she had already ensured that the two mongrels who had held her captive had received their comeuppance, whereas her father, with whom she was also quite displeased, had not. And as the king of Doriath, surely he should handle any such delicate political matters, for the sake of propriety at least. And given everything, did he not owe her a wedding gift? 

Course now set, she tossed her letter draft into the scrap bin to be scraped and reused later, scooped up the Fëanorian missive and set out to dump it upon Thingol’s lap, her mind now much more at ease.  

Maedhros stared at the words in front of him, wondering if perhaps his grasp of Sindarin was, somehow, deficient, or, more likely, that perhaps the Doriathrim in their cosseted and callous isolation had managed to diverge their dialect enough as to be unintelligible to wider Beleriand. Given Thingol’s historically strong opinions on language, he would not be surprised to learn that the Sinda had managed to enact another linguistic offense. 

He read over the words again. They had not changed, so presuming that Doriathrim and Beleriandic Sindarin had not yet diverged, Lúthien Tinúviel really had managed to use his father’s Silmaril to resurrect Beren, and, as a result, the Silmaril currently resided inside the Man’s chest. 

Maedhros wanted to disbelieve it, to decry it as a poorly thought out jest or even an insultingly obvious lie, and he likely would have, if not for one singular factor: Thingol’s tone regarding Beren. 

Maedhros had little grasp on the man’s character, as his primary sources for such were unreasonably biased, but even without reliable testimony, he knew very well that Thingol disliked the Man. After all, he had essentially announced as such when he had sent him after a Silmaril, an unsubtle death sentence (although, admittedly recent news had the veracity of that statement in flux). 

While Maedhros was a tad tempted to believe this letter was meant as bait so as to ensure Beren’s death at the hands of his House, so that Thingol did not have to bother himself with the undoubtedly plebeian act of picking up a blade himself…. Well, the tone did not fit. 

If that had been his aim, Maedhros would have expected something more mocking, or smug, something meant to enrage him, to cause him to cry insult. But instead, the letter almost read as sullen, with a clear undercurrent of bafflement. The last paragraph all but demanded to know if Maedhros had been aware the Silmarils could do this sort of thing, with barely any pleasantries to disguise the question. 

For the record, Maedhros most assuredly had not. But a part of him, quietly, wondered, had his father known? Fëanor, who feared death long before any of the rest of them truly understood the weight of it. Fëanor, who had feared the death of a parent most of all. Fëanor, who had been so frantic, so fixated on the Silmarils after seeing Finwë’s body. Had this been their purpose all along? 

(And another quieter, deeper part of him yet, wondered: could Maedhros have saved his father, had he held one as Fëanor burned?) 

But that way lay madness. 

Maedhros shook his head to clear it. He had not known, no one still alive had known until now, but, of course, that would soon change. The issue, therefore, was not who might have known or guessed previously, but how quickly this knowledge would spread with Beren acting as proof of concept, and more worryingly, what others would do with the knowledge. 

Which, of course, brought Maedhros to the question of what he would do with this knowledge, and how he would have to corral his brothers to ensure they did not do anything rash or foolish, or in the case of Celegorm and Curufin, anything more. 

And the easiest way to ensure that was to control the dissemination of the knowledge so that he could control and limit their reactions. Thankfully, his most troublesome brothers were already under his roof. As for the rest, if he wished to call a meeting, well, Maglor had resided in Himring since the Bragollach, but waiting for the other three to travel to join them ran the risk of the information becoming known early and outside of his watch. No, he would have to speak to the rest of them through palantir. 

Thankfully, Amon Ereb was far enough away from Doriath, that Maedhros was confident he could intercept them if need be. He did not think they would be so foolish, but recent events had taught him not to underestimate his brothers. Additionally, Caranthir had held a grudge against Thingol for centuries now, and while Amrod and Amras were less openly hostile, they certainly held no fondness for Doriath given the aftermath of the Bragollach.  

(In truth, Maedhros could hardly blame them, he felt much the same.)

But regardless of any anger, justified or not, Maedhros had already only just avoided a war with Doriath, and he was not going to let that work go to waste. 

As such, he moved quickly, and it was only later that day, in the evening, that he had three of his younger brothers clustered in his antechamber (with himself carefully sat in the chair nearest to the door), as they waited for the other three to connect through the palantir. Thus far, none of them seemed to know why he wished to speak with them, good. 

Although it seemed that Celegorm did not agree with that assessment, for as soon as the palantir flickered with light, revealing the faces of Amrod, Amras, and Caranthir, he whirled towards Maedhros in a huff and demanded, “Can we finally know what this is all about then?”

Maedhros leveled his gaze at him, not a glare, just a flat unyielding stare, a slight reminder of Maedhros’s current displeasure with him, letting Celgorm squirm a little underneath it before turning to address the room at large. 

“I have received a letter from Doriath,” he stated, his left hand reaching into his belt pouch to produce the letter and laying it upon the table. 

As expected, the mention of Doriath produced scowls from Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin. Amrod and Amras showed no obvious signs of displeasure, but the palantir would obscure any more subtle signs, especially with the use split between three people. Maglor’s expression changed very little, ever the consummate performer, as he allowed only the slightest uptick of an eyebrow and the flicker of his gaze down towards the letter before returning it towards Maedhros's face. 

“As far as I can tell,” Maedhros continued forward, “the letter is truthful in its reporting of events, despite the-”

Here he paused, struggling to find words to fully encapsulate the sheer insanity of the events the letter conveyed. There really was no way to put this delicately. 

“The ridiculous shnikbûzg of a situation it describes,” he finished, deciding that the Black Speech word was really the only appropriate way to encapsulate everything. 

Both of Maglor’s eyebrows had ticked up at that, and the rest of his brothers were looking at him with now quite a bit of concern mixed in with their confusion. But before they could interrupt, Maedhros continued doggedly ahead. 

“To review what we already knew from various reports,” he said, “Beren and Lúthien successfully retrieved a Silmaril from Angband, but in their escape, they were attacked by the wolf, Carcharoth, who swallowed the Silmaril. What we have now learned is that Doriath ordered a hunt for the wolf, the beast was slain, and the Silmaril recovered.”

He paused again, and could not help but to grimace. This was going to be the interesting bit. 

“During the hunt, Beren was gravely wounded and according to this account, was dead, or at least dying. But in response to this, Lúthien chose, well,” he sighed, before finishing flatly, “She chose to shove the Silmaril into his chest and according to Thingol, this brought him back to life, as his chest miraculously closed up with the Silmaril still inside him, and it is apparently still there, as they can see the light of it in his eyes, and hear a hum in his chest instead of a heartbeat.”

There, that was the end of it. 

There was silence for a glorious thirty seconds before the room erupted into enraged, confused, and disbelieving shouts. 

“What do you mean it brought him back to life-“

“I will admit, I did not expect that-“

“How is that even possible, the Silmarils-“

“She shoved it into his chest, why-“

“Brought him back to life? It brought a mortal-“

“No, no way, that should not even be-“

“Has Thingol gone mad-“

“Silence!” Maedhros bellowed. 

He let his gaze sweep over each of them. Celegorm and Curufin were the most obviously agitated, both having risen from their seats, but Caranthir was also very notably embodying his mother-name. The twins looked more baffled than angry, while Maglor had his hands crossed in front of his face, which was a sure sign that the revelation had thrown him enough that he could not completely control his face. 

“Sit back down,” he ordered Curufin and Celegorm firmly, “I did not call you together so that you could rage uselessly or hark off on another less than brilliant plan. So, unless you have something useful to contribute, sit in silence.”

He paused, allowing the two time to grudgingly return to their seats. 

“As for the rest of you,” he continued, “Clearly, we must respond to this, and we will respond as a united House, so we will decide here and now how we shall do so, understood?”

There were vague murmurs of agreement. 

“Excellent,” Maedhros replied dryly, allowing himself to sit, “Now, let us discuss our options.”

“We should kill the mortal and take back the Silmaril” Celegorm spoke up immediately, “He has no right to it, it is ours!”

“We are not going to war with Doriath,” Maedhros snapped back, “Or did you think I spent all that time cleaning up your mess out of mere brotherly affection? We will not be splitting our forces and resources to fight on two fronts. Doriath may be useless as an ally, but that does not mean they would not be injurious as an enemy. And given your previous actions, we are already on thin enough ice that I am certain slaying the princess’s paramour will end quite poorly, a princess that has just successfully brought down Sauron and snuck into Angband, I will remind you. So, there is at least one Doriathrim quite capable of doing damage to our forces. We are not killing Beren.”

“Well, it is not as though we have to be ones to kill him. He is just a mortal, mortals die,” sneered Curufin, “We just have to make sure we are the ones prying the jewel out of his body when he does.”

Maedhros resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Given that this mortal has been resurrected and kept alive by the Silmaril, an entirely unprecedented situation,” he said flatly, “I do not think we can make the assumption that he is mortal or, indeed, that he will die at all. Try again.”

“Well, we cannot just leave it in him,” interjected Caranthir.

“Perhaps we could.”

Slowly, all heads turned to face Maglor in disbelief, but he merely looked back at them coolly, not betraying any discomfort or uncertainty. 

“Explain,” Maedhros ordered. 

Maglor leaned back slightly, casting his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril,” he quoted, “that was our Oath.” 

“Yes,” Maedhros replied slowly, “your point?”

Maglor hummed. 

“Oaths are not terribly different from Songs of Power,” he said, “Both powerful, both born out of the will of the speaker or singer, as they impress that will upon the fabric of the world, giving their words weight beyond simple speech, and ensuring that they resonate with the Music.”

“Yes, Káno,” Caranthir said exasperatedly, “We all know your skill and knowledge when it comes to Song, but you do not have to make a performance out of everything, get to the point.”

Maglor sniffed a little, glancing sidelong at the palantir. 

“I was giving necessary context,” he replied snidely, “if you would be capable of just a little patience…”

Maedhros saw Caranthir open his mouth, but before he could speak again, he cut in, refusing to let this devolve into petty bickering. 

“Enough,” he said sternly, and then, “Maglor, your point please.”

“Songs and Oaths are alike in another important way too,” Maglor said, “While the intent of the speaker or singer does matter, so does the exact wording. It is possible to disrupt a Song by challenging its specifics, revealing a flaw or gap exposed by the phrasing and logic of it.”

Maedhros could not help but to glance towards Celegorm and Curufin at that, the memory of their cousin suddenly hung heavy in the air. 

“Are you saying there is a gap in the Oath’s wording that you want to take advantage of?” asked Amras, breaking through Maedhros’s dark reverie. 

“There are three,” Maglor said, “I suspect each on their own might not be enough to undermine the intent of the Oath, but the three layered on top of each other, well, that might just be enough.”

Maedhros rarely allowed himself the luxury of hope, and yet, perhaps he could indulge himself this once. 

“What are the gaps?” he asked, his own mind running over the words, trying to find the chinks in the armor that his brother’s cleverness had spotted. 

Maglor raised up a hand and began counting his points off on his fingers. 

“The first,” he began, “is that Beren is now in an unusual situation regarding what he is. ‘Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth’, our father said, which normally is rather comprehensive, and yet how can Beren be said to be a Man any longer? But then again, he is no elf or Maia either. He is arguably now a category not covered by the Oath.” 

“He is still an Aftercomer,” Curufin argued back, “You cannot say the Oath does not apply to him because he died, he is still an enemy of our House!”

Maglor gave him a withering look. 

“Did I or did I not mention that each gap on their own would not be enough?” he asked icily, “Do allow me to finish.”

Curufin huffed and subsided. Maglor continued. 

“The second is the line ‘Death we will deal him’, Beren has already died, and given the details of this letter,” he said, gesturing towards the page, “it is up for debate as to whether his current state counts as life. Thingol mentions he lacks a heartbeat now. As such, he has arguably already been dealt death, and that aspect of the Oath fulfilled.”

Maedhros nodded slowly, he could start to see the shape of Maglor’s argument. But he was not quite convinced that it was enough, and hoped the last point would change that. 

“Finally,” Maglor said briskly, “There is the matter of Fëanor and Fëanor’s kin. It is possible to read the Oath in such a way, both in word and intent actually, that we only need to deal death and doom to those who are not our kin, but members of our House may hold them safely.”

…. And Maglor had lost him. 

“How is this relevant to Beren?” Amrod asked in a baffled tone, “He is, or, well, he was, a Man, and he was not even one who served our House.”

Caranthir spoke up, his brow furrowed, trying to puzzle his way through Maglor’s logic. 

“There was the oath connecting him to Finrod, who was technically our kin, although not our House, so you could try and argue for that link, but it seems flimsy and tenuous at best, certainly not enough to circumvent the Oath.”

“Then it is a good thing that that was not my logic,” sniffed Maglor, “Give me more credit than that. No, the connection lies in the Silmaril itself.”

Here, he paused, the faintest flicker of discomfort present in the set of his shoulders, only noticeable because Maedhros knew his younger brother so well.

“I think at this point we can all agree,” he began carefully, “that although Atar never explicitly confirmed it, he put more than just the light of the Two Trees into the Silmarils, that he poured some of himself, his essence into them, his fëa.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. None of them could refute that. That their father had admitted that he would never be able to make their like again, and more damningly, that he had admitted that to unmake them would kill him, well, it had all but confirmed their suspicions. And, although they rarely spoke of it, Maedhros knew that much of the fear and desperation surrounding their Oath lay in the fact that none of them were certain what state their father’s fëa was in now that he had died and Silmarils were still out of reach. 

Maglor continued, an uncharacteristic tone of hesitation still in his voice. 

“From what we can tell from the letter, the Silmaril not only healed Beren’s wounds, but also had some effect on his spirit, Thingol mentions being able to see the light of it in his eyes. Given the lack of heartbeat, which he also mentions, I believe it is safe to conclude that the Silmaril is sustaining him, sustaining both his spirit and body.”

Maedhros nodded, that seemed a logical conclusion. Over on his left, he could see Curufin failing to suppress a scowl, but he offered no challenge to Maglor’s logic. 

“Well,” Maglor said, “for the Silmaril, and thus by necessity, our father’s fëa, to sustain and bring to life a being, to support him in both body and soul, is that not most similar to how our race bears children?”

Maedhros blinked, trying to keep his jaw from dropping, as he finally comprehended Maglor’s logic. He could see it start to dawn on his brothers as well, and evidently Maglor could too, as he continued rather hurriedly, as though attempting to get ahead of any interruptions. 

“Furthermore,” he said, “can it not be said that resurrection is a form of rebirth? And therefore, is Beren not now our brother, having been reborn as our father’s son?”

There was a single, solitary moment of silence as the weight of Maglor’s conclusions settled on the room. And then-

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” roared Curufin. 

Celegorm was not far behind him, having risen out of his seat to storm towards Maglor.

“You cannot possibly mean what you say,” he hissed, “to claim him as our brother.”

Curufin’s rant had continued. 

“-to think you would even consider disgracing our House in such a way. Have you no pride! Would you see us grovel before that, that thief!”

“Perhaps I should not be surprised,” sneered Celegorm, “After all, when it comes to family, you have always been spineless.”

Maedhros saw Maglor’s expression change at those words, a blank but black rage settling behind his eyes, as he opened his mouth. Maedhros abruptly shoved himself between the two of them to forestall whatever retort would come next, however deserved it might have been. 

“Celegorm, sit down,” he snapped, “And Curufin, be silent. If you two are incapable of useful discussion, I will have you thrown out and you can lose all rights to weigh in on our course of action.” 

Maedhros could see the snarl starting to form on Celgorm’s face, and so let his weight settle further, as his right forearm rose up to press against Celegorm’s chest. Behind him, he could feel Maglor’s presence move back, presumably settling back in his chair; as such, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Celegorm. 

It took more than just a moment, but, finally, Celgorm settled back on his heels, a mask of indifference drawn up upon his face as he then turned abruptly away from Maedhros to throw himself back down into his chair, lounging back in a deliberate display of nonchalance, which was undercut by the clenched fist Maehros could just see tucked just behind his head. 

He waited for a moment more to make sure there would be no more trouble, before returning to his seat.

“Maglor,” he addressed, “How certain are you that these loopholes will be enough to circumvent the Oath?”

Maglor hummed.

“Fairly certain,” he replied slowly, “But I suspect that given the last one is, as I see it, the most load-bearing, we will be better off the more we can reinforce its premise.”

“Meaning?” Maedhros asked, although he had an inkling as to where this was going.

“We should publicly adopt Beren into our House,” Maglor stated bluntly, “Make it clear that we recognize him as such, which will then hopefully help circumvent the Oath, but also make it clear that the Silmaril is under our protection, which will ideally ward off anyone else with ideas about taking it.”

Yes, Maedhros had been concerned about that. 

There was a sigh from the palantir. 

“Maglor’s right,” Caranthir admitted, somewhat begrudgingly, “And making it public would help set the precedent.”

“What precedent,” spat Curufin, “That we will roll over and adopt any worthless scum who steals a Silmaril?”

“No,” Maglor countered, “That the Silmarils remain firmly under our claim, our aegis, and that any who try for them must either prove they are worthy by bearing them through their death and resurrection, or else face our wrath.”

“You intend to emphasize the resurrection rather than suppress it in the public narrative then?” Maedhros asked, a little concerned, as he had thought that aspect to be one of the most dangerous. 

“We cannot suppress it,” Maglor told him frankly, “We do not have control of that information and no doubt it has already spread halfway across Beleriand by now. As such, if we try to deny it, we look like we are hiding something. No, we embrace it, and elevate it; emphasize how the resurrection is a test, that our father’s spirit judged Beren and found him worthy. It helps that he and Lúthien were so daring, prying a Silmaril off of the crown of Morgoth himself, surely, his spirit must burn bright. We make it clear that the consequence of obtaining a Silmaril is death, Beren was simply impressive enough to be granted rebirth, but will others? We make them doubt, we make them nervous, and make it clear that anyone who tries will come under our power regardless.”

As Maglor made his case, Maedhros let his gaze sweep across the room. Caranthir and the twins seemed convinced, but as for Celgorm and Curufin, well, certainly neither of them seemed happy, scowls deepening as Maglor mentioned the idea of Atar finding Beren worthy, but he could see the consideration start to flicker in their eyes as Maglor reached the end of his speech, especially when he mentioned the coming under our power bit. 

Maedhros could work with this. 

Turning back to Maglor, he nodded. 

“I take your point,” he said, “And it seems to me that we have a workable plan. My suggestion is that we reach out to Beren directly, no need for Thingol as a mediator, make it clear that this is purely a matter of our House. Based on Beren’s reaction, we will then discuss how to move forward, but I am sure that we can make it clear that agreeing is in his best interests.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Curufin lean forward. 

“And if he does not agree?” he asked silkily. 

“Then we shall reconvene and revisit some of your other ideas,” Maedhros replied without remorse.

Curufin smirked, and Celegorm let a wolf’s smile spread across his face, both clearly more content now with the bit of bone he had thrown them. Not that, of course, Maedhros had any intention of letting the situation devolve to that point, but if the potentiality of blood kept them appeased enough to fall in line, he would let them have it. 

“I take it we are in agreement then,” he stated, not truly asking.

There were nods all around, albeit some of them just slight inclines of the head. 

“Excellent,” he said, “Caranthir, I will reach out again once we get a reply, until then, Amrod, Amras, I ask that you stay close to the fortress until we know our next steps.”

“Understood,” Caranthir replied, the twins nodding beside him, before he let the palantir fade out. 

Looking up, Maedhros jerked his head towards Maglor. 

“Maglor, with me, I want your help with the wording,” he said, and then let his gaze slide over to his remaining brothers, “You two are free to leave, just keep yourselves out of trouble.”

Neither of them dignified that with a response, although Celegorm did let the door slam on their way out. Not entirely appeased then, noted.

But Maedhros currently had greater concerns. Turning back to Maglor, he moved his chair to be right beside him. 

“Right then, let us make this convincing…”

“Absolutely not!”

Despite the impressive pitch of his love’s voice, Beren could not seem to tear his eyes from the letter. 

“They cannot be serious, are they mad?!” she continued, having left his side to pace the room. 

“Mad they might be,” he replied, “But they do seem to be quite serious in their, ah, offer.”

Offer was not really the right word, given that it was also very clearly a threat, although admittedly a more cordial one than Beren had expected given his last encounter with their House. 

“Well, they may be serious, but we have no reason to entertain it,” Lúthien sniffed, coming back to sit at his side, “Might as well have been a waste of parchment on their part.”

But as she held out her hand, presumably to dispose of the letter, Beren found himself hesitant to let her. 

“Hold a moment, my love,” he murmured, as his eyes drifted down to re-read the letter again. 

It would be easier to dismiss the letter as irrelevant, simply more of the posturing Beren had come to expect from elves (with some exceptions, his love included, of course). And yet, and yet, there were a few points that niggled at him. 

“Beren,” Lúthien said, drawing his gaze upwards, at her tone of concern, “Surely, you cannot actually be considering this? We have nothing to fear from them. They cannot enter into the Girdle, and even if we live elsewhere, I think we have shown that we can handle the Fëanorians.”

“You are not wrong,” Beren said, reaching out his remaining hand to hers in reassurance. 

“I am never wrong,” Lúthien asserted, drawing a small laugh from him. 

“And yet,” she said, ducking her head so that their eyes were level with each other, “I can tell you are still thinking. Share your thoughts with me.”

Beren took in and then let out a breath. He did not quite need to anymore, he had discovered that air was no longer a strict necessity for him, but he found the motion comforting nonetheless. 

“The first thought,” he began, “is that while I certainly believe in our ability, or at least your ability, to defend ourselves, the Fëanorians will not be the only ones interested in the stone. Maedhros himself admits that.”

“That may be so,” Lúthien replied, “But that hardly means we need to avail ourselves of their protection. The Girdle is strong, and none in my parent’s realm would dare to touch you.” 

Personally, Beren was less sure of that than Lúthien, having seen just how unwelcoming the Halls of Doriath could be to mortal men, and for all that he was im-or perhaps un-mortal now, he was not sure how much that would change. 

But that was not his largest concern. 

“And if we should ever wish to leave the Girdle?” he queried softly, “If we should wish to live under our own power and not under the domain of your father? You spoke of wishing to see the world with me once, of creating our own space in which we could build our happiness. And that was when we thought our days numbered within a mortal lifespan, now…”

He trailed off, not truly able to finish the thought. Eternity. Immortality. He did not truly know if that was what he faced now, but his mind was unable to fully wrap itself around the concept regardless, shying away from it whenever he tried. 

“And now we face the possibility of forever,” Lùthien finished for him softly, “I take your point, my love. And I do still wish for that, but do you think the situation is truly so dire that we need  to rely on them for aid?”

“What is the alternative?” he asked. “Thingol will not send his forces beyond this wood, so if we are to leave, we do so alone. And while I will now and always find joy at your side, I have been hunted before, and it is not a life I would wish for you. The Fëanorians are contemptible, but they have also had practice standing between the Enemy and his goals. Why not let them bear the burden as part of their weregild to us?”

Lúthien sighed, collapsing backwards onto the cushions of the divan they sat on. 

“Perhaps,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “But in the form of adoption? I cannot think of more undesirable options for law-brothers, let alone actual brothers.”

Beren hummed. 

“That actually brings me to my second reason,” he replied, letting some mischief creep into his voice. 

“Oh?” Lúthien asked, her head lifting a little to meet his gaze once more. 

Beren pointed towards a specific line of the letter, before reading it aloud. 

“We extend this offer as a united House, for, yes, even Celegorm and Curufin have come to agree to set their enmity aside, and name and protect you as their brother should you accept,” he read, “Come to agree, that does not sound like either of them are pleased with the prospect. On the contrary, it sounds like they were forced into agreeing. In fact, I suspect they would be quite relieved if I refused, so they could go on openly hating me.”

Lúthien was now smiling a little. 

“Are you suggesting,” she said, her voice filled with delight, “that you are considering accepting their offer out of spite?”

Beren could not help but to smile back at her.

“That, my love,” he replied, “is exactly what I am suggesting. Let them claim my name for their House, it is not as though they will have my heart, for that is yours forever and always. Let them bear the burden of protecting our happiness, it will make a fine weregild. And every day hence, let Celegorm and Curufin gnash their teeth and bite their tongues as they are forced to call me brother, to defend my life with their own. Let them seethe and live their life in bitterness, chained by their own oath, while we live on without a thought further for them. What finer fates could fate weave for us four?”

Lúthien laughed then, the sound pealing like bells, her pale throat shining as she threw her head back, shoulders shaking in delight. 

“While I still cannot think of more undesirable law-brothers,” she said at last, once her laughter stopped, “I am quite fond of the picture you have painted, and it is perhaps a finer revenge than any we could carry out ourselves.”

She reached out, her hand lifting to cup Beren’s cheek, one thumb stroking across his cheekbone, and he let himself lean into it, pleased by her acceptance of his plan. 

“We shall have to find some place to meet with them still,” she continued, “They certainly will not be allowed in Doriath, and agreement or not, I have little desire to meet within one of their fortresses.” 

“Agreed,” Beren said absentmindedly, trying to think of where might be suitable. “I would suggest Nargothrond, but I suspect they would be less than willing to host Celegorm and Curufin. Additionally, we shall have to secure the promise of witnesses, I do not want to give them the chance to avoid them publicly swearing brotherhood to me.”

Lúthien hummed in agreement, before a truly wicked smile suddenly crossed her face. 

“What about Tol Sirion?” she suggested, “The tower itself might be in ruins, but the isle itself is now clean and perfectly serviceable. And the location will serve as an excellent reminder for all parties.”

Beren could hardly muster up the words to answer, truly his Lúthien was the loveliest creature alive, beautiful both in the way of a nightingale’s song and the sharpness of a good knife. 

“Truly,” he finally managed, “I am the luckiest man alive. Tol Sirion will suit perfectly.”

Lúthien smiled down at him, and suddenly all thoughts of letter-writing were firmly placed lower in his order of priorities. The Fëanorians could wait for his reply. 

Maedhros stood on the shores of what could perhaps once again be called Tol Sirion. He had to admire the Doriathrim princess’s choice of location, it was an elegant if unsubtle reminder of her power, and a particularly biting message to those who needed that reminder the most.

Shooting a glance at Celgorm and Curufin, he found the two of them standing at the water’s edge, glaring out over the banks of the river, seemingly ignoring the fortress ruins standing behind them. 

Maglor, on the other hand, was studying the fortress carefully, humming under his breath as he did so. Meanwhile, Amrod and Amras were roaming slightly further away on the beach, while Caranthir stood next to Maedhros, his arms crossed over his chest as he glowered at the ground. 

It was slightly risky to have gathered all seven of them here, taking them away from the frontlines. But despite Morgoth’s recent humiliation, Maedhros did not think he would launch a true assault anytime soon. Not only would such a thing take time to plan, but with Gorthaur’s recent defeat, he suspected the forces of Angband would be licking their wounds a while yet.

And besides, this was important. 

It was then that Maedhros heard a shout, breaking him out of his thoughts. Glancing up, he saw the twins pointing out over the water. Evidently their other guests were now within sight. 

“Well,” he said grimly, “Let us get this over with.”

By the time their guests had docked and reached the shore, Maedhros had he and all his brothers assembled and ready to greet them. 

While he himself had never seen Beren, he was thankfully easy to identify, being the only Man amongst the group, especially as he stood at the front of the group, which almost certainly made the tall dark-haired woman at his side Lúthien. 

Maedhros stepped forward, and offering a slight bow, called out:

“Mae govannen, a star shines on the hour of our meeting.” 

As Beren stepped closer, Maedhros took the opportunity to study him. Brown hair, still a fairly young man, but well past childhood, would likely be accounted tall among his own people, but would be considered rather short among the Noldor. 

Overall, he would judge Beren’s appearance to be rather unremarkable, with just one exception: his eyes. Maedhros could not say what color they had been before, but now they shone with a steady silvery white light, that of his father’s gem. 

Maedhros could admit that he found the sight unsettling, the last time he had seen that light, well, it had not been a particularly pleasant memory. 

But he turned his mind away from that moment to focus on the present one, as Beren and his brothers continued to exchange bland pleasantries and greetings, although, he noted with some amusement that Lúthien had not deigned to greet either Celegorm or Curufin. 

Once the greetings were out of the way, Beren spoke. 

“Now,” Beren said mildly, “We have brought our witnesses, I take it yours are nearby?”

Maedhros nodded. 

“They are camped on the other side of that hill,” he said pointing, “Yours are welcome to join them there, but given that we agreed we would discuss the specifics of the ceremony in-person, I had not thought it necessary to summon them just yet.” 

Beren hummed in agreement, before turning back towards his party, presumably to pass on that news. 

As he waited, Maedhros drifted to where a small table and chairs had been set up, Caranthir had already seated himself and had brought out his papers to review, his dark eyes scanning the text intently. 

Dropping himself into his seat, Maedhros asked, “Are we prepared for this then? The contract is well in order?”

Caranthir looked insulted.

“Of course we are,” he snapped, “So long as he accepts it. I wrote each copy out myself.”

Maedhros chose to ignore the dripping disdain present in the word he, and instead turned his attention back towards Beren who had sent off the vast majority of his entourage towards the same hill Maedhros had gestured towards, and now approached with only Lúthien at his side. 

“So,” Beren said as he got closer, “I know I have an idea as to how this might go, but I assume you have your own as well?”

Maedhros nodded. They had more than just an idea. Caranthir had dug into every legal stricture he could find regarding adoption and fosterage, most of which predated the Great Journey, and yet his brother had come through. 

“Perhaps, you should explain your thoughts first,” he offered, as he had a suspicion as to what Beren’s idea might be and wanted to confirm that. 

Beren seemed, well, in truth, he seemed somewhat wary of the offer, but not so much so that he pushed back against Maedhros. Instead, despite his wariness, he explained. 

“Lúthien has told me of a practice amongst the Sindar,” he began, “of troth-brothership, or gwadoras. We would cut our hands, mingle our blood and swear an oath that we should be brothers, outlawed or honoured, come bliss or come woe, bound in friendship in arms, and faith in peril.” 

Yes, that was what Maedhros had suspected he would suggest; his Sindarin followers had advised him well. 

“I am familiar with the concept,” he said simply, “The Noldor have a similar one, called otorno.”

“Then you are not opposed to going forward with such an oath then?” Beren asked. 

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, “But we also had another idea to put forward, one that seemed to fit our particular situation better.”

Beren raised an eyebrow.

“You managed to find something related to jewel-based resurrection?” he said dead-panned, “Truly, the Noldor are inventive folk.”

Maedhros let his lips twitch up a bit in amusement. 

“Nothing quite so specific,” he said, “Although I have no doubt our actions today will set a precedent for such. But no, what we found is related to fosterage or as we call it, restië.”

“Fosterage,” Beren said with a tone of surprise, “I was not aware that the Noldor had such a practice. Among my father’s clan, fostering usually happened after a child became orphaned, and I doubt that was an issue across the sea.”

“You are not wrong,” Maedhros replied frankly, “As far as our records show, the practice began before the Great Journey, before our people came to Aman. And in those times, it was used for orphans or sometimes preemptively to ensure the child would still have caretakers in case the worst happened.”

Lúthien spoke up for the first time in this meeting. Her voice was… Maedhros was hardly new to powerful Singers, he had grown up with Maglor, he knew very well how the Music could begin to linger in the voices of those that called upon it often. 

But Lúthien’s voice was different. There was no subtle touch of the Music in her speech, it was open, obviously present. 

But that was not something he needed to concern himself with right now. 

“Those records must have been ancient then,” she said, a tone of what sounded like reluctant curiosity in her voice, “I am surprised you even had them.”

Caranthir sniffed. 

“Our records are excellent,” he said in a tone that was more challenging than diplomatic, but when Maedhros gave him a mild look, he subsided slightly, and continued more matter of factly, “But the ones I pulled for this are not so old as that, the practice became adapted over the years in Aman, and those are the records I had in my safe-keeping.”

Maedhros jumped back in, not wanting to rely on Caranthir staying diplomatic for the remainder of this conversation. 

“As you may know,” he continued, “The Noldor are well known for our craftsmen. Once in Aman, restië became more similar to what you might think of as an apprenticeship, a way to codify a student’s rights and place within the family of whoever they were learning from.”

“An apprenticeship?” Beren asked, sounding somewhat skeptical, “And you think this is more fitting than my suggestion?”

“You misunderstand,” Maedhros said, shaking his head, “I was merely explaining how the practice has adapted over the years, but our intention is to call upon the older form in order to recognize you as our father’s foster-child, his ráhina. Although we had planned to use the trappings of the more modern version of restië in order to more clearly and visibly establish you as such.”

He stopped for a moment, letting his gaze drift pointedly towards Beren’s chest where he knew the Silmaril hummed. 

“This includes the mainamë or the foster-gift,” he said pointedly, “Once restië became associated with teaching, it became customary for it to end with the ráhina being given a gift to mark the occasion, usually something created by their foster-parent’s own hands, to mark the continued connection between them.”

“Ah,” Beren said, his eyes a little wide, “So then, the Silmaril..”

“Well, it is the reason we are making this effort,” Maedhros replied, smiling thinly, “Therefore, it seems best to have your continued holding of it explicitly involved in our agreement.”

Beren nodded slowly. The Man was no fool, he recognized the danger of leaving his claim to the stone unspoken. 

Maedhros did not feel the need to belabor the point. 

“But in regards to practicalities,” he said briskly, “It seemed most prudent to draw up a restië contract. To that end, my brother has not only researched the older form of restië as best he was able, but the modern form as well, to best determine what actions and responsibilities we shall have towards each other.”

Caranthir took this as his cue to rejoin the conversation

“There was quite a bit to sort through. For, depending on rank,” Caranthir began, shuffling his papers, “A foster-parent, or ránostar, has certain legal obligations, called the restanautië, that they must fulfill. Much of them relate to the quality of goods and care a ránostar must provide their ráhína, as the properties of such are dependent on rank, so as not to impoverish. For example, looking first at breakfast provisions, a king is obligated to provide-“

Maedhros cut off Caranthir before he could begin reciting every legal stricture related to restië.

“Caranthir, just the relevant details if you please, I doubt Beren cares for the details of the specific foodstuffs the ránostar is due to provide according to his rank.”

Caranthir huffed, but obliged. Beren looked notably grateful. 

“Most of the details regarding obligations due to you while actively under restië can be left out then,” he said grumpily. “Although if you wish to review them later on, I have the documentation. But given the classifying of the Silmaril in your chest as your mainamë, presumably, you are also being classified as having finished your restië and thus will not be living in our care and under our provisions.”

Caranthir then looked to Beren, clearly seeking explicit acknowledgment. Thankfully, Beren nodded, albeit somewhat cautiously. 

“That seems reasonable,” he replied slowly, “Especially given that I believe we all have little desire to spend much time in each other’s company.”

Beside him, Lúthien’s expression made it clear this was an understatement. 

“Yes, well to that,” Caranthir continued, thankfully breaking what could have become a prolonged moment of awkward tension, “There is one obligation of restië that does remain somewhat relevant. Technically, a ránostar is legally obligated to ensure the education of their ráhina in a number of skills depending on their rank. Thus under the potential penalty of being sued for neglect, we have an obligation to ensure you are trained in riding, shooting, Singing, how to play nolwëtaurina, and one of our father’s crafts.” 

Beren stared at Caranthir for a minute, seeming rather taken aback by this revelation, and not all seeming pleased about the possibility of learning under the Fëanorians. Nor did Lúthien, who looked outraged by his side. Maedhros was careful not to let his mouth twitch. 

“Nolwëtaurina is a strategy game” he said pleasantly, cutting off Lúthien just as she opened her mouth, “very popular amongst the Noldor. I myself am accounted quite skilled at it.”

Beren’s stare switched to him, with no small amount of frustration lurking behind his eyes. Well, the Man had caused Maedhros no small amount of consternation, so he could handle such a small return of the favor. Besides, it was not as though they were actually going to make him go through with the lessons. 

Lúthien was still scowling. 

“He hardly needs lessons from you,” she snapped, “He can already ride and shoot, and should he wish to learn Singing, I am the obvious choice to be his teacher.”

Maedhros then slid his gaze to Caranthir and gave a small nod of his head to prompt the continuation. 

“Then if you are both in agreement on that,” his brother said, sliding a section of the contract across the table smoothly, “then you would be willing to sign off on this section here, stating that you recognize you have been given full opportunity for such lessons, have chosen to decline, and thus surrendered any legal claims to sue for neglect by doing so?”

Maedhros could all but see Beren’s mind working to determine if agreement would be a trap, which, to be reasonable, was never an unfair position to take towards Caranthir when across the negotiating table with him. But it seemed, despite his suspicion, his desire to not suffer under their tutelage won out, as he reached over and signed the contract. 

“That is the most pressing matter,” Caranthir said, clearly satisfied, “There are some items we have prepared to give you as marks of your fosterage by our house, part of the modern customs that my brother mentioned before. Listed in order they are: tunics of satin and scarlet, a sword with a scabbard of silver with bronze rings around the hilt, a brooch of gold with crystal inserted into it bearing the star of of our House, and finally lembas baked with fresh honey and new milk.”

Maedhros kept his face neutral as Caranthir listed the objects that he had insisted were necessary from his research. He knew that his brother had gotten some kind of legal trick past him; he had been far too smug when he presented Maedhros with the list. But at the very least, whatever minor scheme Caranthir had in mind was undetectable enough not to be troublesome. Furthermore, knowing his brother, Maedhros doubted it was anything that would truly jeopardize this endeavor, but instead was likely some small legal technicality that Caranthir would enjoy as his own private victory but would be practically meaningless to anyone else. 

Also, he very much doubted Beren or Lúthien would take the time to meticulously research ancient Noldorin legal treatises to find out. 

“Aside from that,” Caranthir continued, “The obligations between ránostar and ráhína post-restië, are fairly simple. We are obligated to protect you going forward and avenge your death, if need be. That obligation is reciprocal.”

Maedhros saw Beren jerk his head up at that, clearly about to protest.

“Those obligations are no more onerous than those expected from an oath of brotherhood,” he said pointedly, cutting the interruption off at the knees, “Friendship in arms and faith in peril.”

Beren held his gaze for a moment, his jaw working as though he was trying to find a way to refute Maedhros’s statement. Eventually though, he dipped his head and spoke:

“You are correct,” Beren said, “that the obligations expected of me from restië seem similar to those of gwadoras. Except, we would be signing a contract instead of being bound by blood-oath, and I would be nominally entering the contract to be bound to your father, who is long dead and whom I have never met. I am sure you can see my concerns.”

Caranthir bristled. 

“If you are implying that we would fail to keep our word,” he began warningly. 

“I think all of Beleriand is well aware of how far the Fëanorians will go to keep their oaths,” Beren replied, making his insinuation clear. 

Before Caranthir could do more than scowl, Maedhros cut him off. 

“Then we combine both ideas,” Maedhros said calmly, “We invoke a restië contract to officially establish your relationship to our father, and then use the gwadoras oath to strengthen the existing relationship in his absence and ensure that our relations going forward are bound by oath. Is this an acceptable compromise?”

Beren and Lúthien glanced at each other. Maedhros wondered if, among the various changes that the Silmaril had enacted, that one of them had been making Beren capable of ósanwë. 

But regardless of the exact mechanism of their communication, it seemed they had reached a conclusion, as Beren turned back towards him and said:

“Call your witnesses.”

Lúthien could admit, she still was not terribly pleased by their situation’s conclusion. As she had told Beren several times over, emphatically, the Fëanorian’s were the worst possible law-brothers. And now here she was, witnessing the binding that made them kin by marriage to her. 

As if he had caught her thoughts on the wind, Celeborn stepped up beside her to murmur, “You must know that if you asked it of him, he would not continue forward with this.”

“I do know,” Lúthien murmured back, trying not to sigh, “But he made several good points as to why we should go through with it.” 

Celeborn said nothing, but Lúthien could almost feel his doubt and judgement of Beren’s logic emanating from him. But that he allowed it to remain silent was the reason he was one of her favorites among the cousins, as while he did make it clear in other ways that he disagreed with her choices, he had never spoken out against Beren openly, and made a point of expressing his concerns privately. 

It was because of that discretion that she gave him an answer to ease that doubt.

“Ask your intended as to whether or not she thinks her most unpleasant cousins’ pride will stand for having to pledge brotherhood and loyalty to a mortal,” she said, before adding, “A mortal who has already bested them at that.”

Celeborn’s lips twitched. 

“Ah, so this is revenge then,” he replied, “I suspect my intended will approve.”

“She has always had a fierce heart,” Lúthien said admiringly. Galadriel was her other favorite cousin. 

Celeborn’s smile was fond as his gaze drifted in the direction of Doriath, clearly thinking of his beloved. 

“Will you let me be there,” Lúthien asked, “When you recount the memory towards her? I suspect her commentary will be most amusing.”

Celeborn inclined his head. 

“We would be delighted to host you,” he said, “Although if you wish for me to recount it to her, then we shall need to pay closer attention to the proceedings. After all, that is the role of a witness, is it not?”

Lúthien laughed softly. 

“Indeed it is,” she replied, “Let us watch then.”

And with that she fell silent, eyes fixed on Beren as he stepped forward towards the sons of Fëanor, a knife in hand. She watched as he made a cut on his hand, letting his blood drip into a small stone basin, before passing the knife to the Fëanorians in turn. 

When it passed to Curufin, the ellon stiffened, a look of outrage passing over his face, as he glared at Beren all of a sudden, before being quelled by a stern glance from his eldest brother, after which he sullenly passed the knife to his next brother. 

At first, Lúthien was not sure why he had had that reaction, but as the knife made its way back to Beren and she got a better look at it as he wiped it down, she realized. 

It was the same knife he had stolen off of Curufin all those months earlier. She did not bother to try and hide her smile. 

Instead, she let it spread wide and wickedly across her face as the ritual continued and all eight men held their hands over the basin, speaking the words of their Oath. 

She could feel the ripple of it in the Music, hear how it acted as an echoed refrain of a verse sung long before. 

Perhaps this refrain would lead to a more hopeful tune. 

Works Cited:

Ancient laws of Ireland: Senchus Mór, pt. II : law of distress. Laws of hostage-sureties, fosterage, saerstock tenure, daer-stock tenure, and of social connexions. Edited by John O'Donovan, Eugene O'Curry, William Neilson Hancock, Thaddeus O'Mahony, Alexander George Richey, William Maunsell Hennessy, Robert Atkinson. H.M. Stationery Office, 1865

“Dictionaries.” Black Speech School - Dictionaries. Школа Черной Речи - Словари, blackspeech.de/los/index.php?page=3&lang=en.  

Giraldus Cambrensis: The Topography of Ireland. Translated by Thomas Forester. Revised and edited by Thomas Wright. Medieval Latin Series, Cambridge, Ontario, 2000. 

Import, Eldamo. “Welcome! - Parf Edhellen: An Elvish Dictionary.” Welcome! - Parf Edhellen: An Elvish Dictionary, www.elfdict.com/. 

Kelly, Fergus. A Guide to Early Irish Law. Ireland, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1988.

Parkes, Peter. “Celtic Fosterage: Adoptive Kinship and Clientage in Northwest Europe.” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 48, no. 2, 2006, pp. 359–95.

Parkes, Peter. “Fosterage, Kinship, and Legend: When Milk Was Thicker than Blood?” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 46, no. 3, 2004, pp. 587–615.