Chapter Text
There it was, the Silmaril, shining as brightly as Varda's stars amidst glittering gems and jewels, trapped by the Nauglamír like it had once been by Morgoth's crown. It rested upon a silken pillow, taken off for the night, almost carelessly discarded. So very close, and so easily taken if only he could get a little closer.
Yet Amras found himself unable to move. Behind the Silmaril, almost eclipsed by the radiant jewel, stood none other than Dior Eluchíl. Silent, waiting, watching. He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, or at least he hadn't seen or heard him come from wherever he had been hidden.
Curse him. Amras had been outwitted.
The light of the Silmaril graced a youthful, immeasurably beautiful face — a mirror of all three kindreds, as rumours and legends said. Dior’s skin appeared like a blend of gold and silver when it shone upon him like this, with darker patches and patterns that reminded Amras of mottled shadows on forest ground, soft and warm, yet also smooth as his mother's statues.
Starry grey eyes met his, gazing upon him with wonder and amusement alike.
"You must be... Amras Fëanorion."
Amras felt his blood run cold. To be seen and known with such calm certainty made him nervous and his task all the more difficult.
"And you have come for my jewel." Dior smiled at him. His entire bearing was conversational.
Almost. Amras might have never been a hunter as great and skilled as Celegorm, but he knew to spot one whose body language carefully concealed his true intentions.
Anger flared up inside him. "The Silmaril is not yours," he hissed, "it belongs to my father and I will take it back in his name!"
"Made by your father, stolen by a fallen Vala, reclaimed by my father." Dior tilted his head thoughtfully, though his eyes never left the enraged prince. "One would think you would show a little more gratitude, given how your father died for what mine accomplished — thanks to my mother, of course."
His words caused Amras' expression to twist with fury, and his smile broadened. "Ah, but if your conviction is so strong, why don't you try to take it from me, Amras Fëanorion?"
Amras narrowed his eyes at Dior. The king wore nothing but a silken robe, his feet bare against the ground, his upper chest and neck exposed, painfully vulnerable. Too easy would it be to draw his sword, to charge, to wound — to kill.
His fingers gripped the hilt in anticipation, knuckles white. No, it didn't seem as though his opponent was armed. At most he could have hidden a dagger somewhere, and that would not avail him against the lethal craftsmanship of a Fëanorian blade. There were no guards in the hallway either, Amras was sure of it. He had carefully observed his surroundings as he had infiltrated the palace. Nobody would reach Dior before him. He had enough time to kill him and escape with the Silmaril.
And yet...
Luminous eyes followed his every movement, the unnatural light of their gaze burning itself into his retinas. There was some sort of hidden power within them, one that had mercilessly seized Amras as he struggled to take action, panicking when his limbs wouldn't obey him. What was stopping him? He had killed before. He knew how. He could — he should slay Thingol's heir for his insolence.
Dior was still smiling. Whatever it was that he was doing, he knew exactly what effect it had on Amras. With nigh cruel nonchalance, he finally broke eye contact, picked up the Nauglamír and admired it.
"You could also drop your sword and surrender to me," he said, speaking to the Silmaril instead of his would-be killer. "If you behave, I may even let you touch it sometime."
Such audacity. Never before had anyone disrespected him like that. Amras attempted to draw his sword, but found that he couldn't. His limbs felt weak and sluggish. His body wouldn't obey — frozen like the very same statues he had remembered while looking upon the king. He could neither attack nor flee.
Unarmed or not, Dior had to have woven some sort of spell and it had wholly and utterly ensnared him.
Amras was helpless. All he could do was stare at the strange yet beautiful predator who had so effortlessly made an oath-bound hunter his prey. All he could do was watch as Dior, with the gentle indulgence of one who knew he had won, put on the Nauglamír and walked towards him. All he could do was wait until fair hands reached for him, like a noose closing around his own neck.
White light burned his eyes even as he closed them.
"Dior Eluchíl has declined to relinquish the Silmaril to us."
Maedhros lowered the letter he had been holding, looking at his brothers with a grave mien. Curufin scowled, Caranthir let out an exasperated sigh, Maglor reached for the letter to see for himself, Celegorm toyed with his hunting knife; Amras, however, said nothing and stared at his hands.
It was infuriating, at least for those among them whose fire still burned hot and had not been reduced to dying embers. After centuries of waiting and warring against hell itself, one of the three jewels was finally within reach, the one Beren and Lúthien had taken from Morgoth's crown, only for their son and heir to deny them with a simple letter. Amras suppressed a snort; it would be funny if he and his brothers weren't the ones who had sworn an oath and seen their father die for it.
And Amrod. The mere thought of his twin was painful. Amrod who had died so needlessly and senselessly, Amrod whose death had, in a way, been dealt by their father's own hand, Amrod who hadn't even been granted the chance to fall in battle. Amrod who was the first and last thing Amras thought of every single day, Amrod whose loss had torn his very fëa apart.
Sometimes not even the squabbling of his older brothers could chase away the deafening silence.
Today was not such a day, however. Amras was roused from his forlorn thoughts when Celegorm rammed his hunting knife into the table, piercing the map Maedhros had placed earlier. With deadly precision, the knife embedded itself into Doriath.
"Well," Celegorm said when all eyes were on him, "disappointing as it may be, the way forward should be clear."
He looked at Maedhros as if to challenge him to say something or stop him, but his older brother kept his expression guarded and remained silent.
"Two Silmarils remain in Morgoth's crown and we won't take Angband or hunt him down any time soon — unless Maglor wants to try to do what Lúthien did?"
Judging by his mien, it was more a joke than an actual suggestion, and Curufin chuckled a little, yet before Maglor could say anything in response Maedhros cut in.
"Nobody here is going inside Angband." His tone was sharp, making it clear that it was final. "And if keeping any of you from hanging off a cliff is the last thing I do, so be it."
Celegorm rolled his eyes. "I would tell you to relax, but there may come a time where this will be our only option. Either way, these two Silmarils aren't our main target right now."
He paused and fixated his brothers. Amras was the only one to avoid his gaze.
"Because the third Silmaril in Dior's hands is one we are able to get."
"With Melian gone, there is no Maiarin magic to hinder us," Curufin supplied, nodding along.
"Only borders and an army," Caranthir remarked sarcastically.
"Which can be taken care of," Celegorm snapped.
Amras said nothing, as did Maglor. Both of them had chosen to watch Maedhros instead, observing as his posture stiffened. It was clear that he wasn't surprised by what his brothers were suggesting, it was an obvious conclusion to make, but he appeared tense.
"All of that is certainly true," he spoke after a while, "yet we must not forget what this will mean... for our people and those of Doriath."
Nobody, not even Celegorm, dared to say it aloud. Kinslaying. None of them had remained guiltless at Alqualondë, blood stained all of their hands. They had all believed that their father's cause was just, they believed it to this day, and yet they couldn't free themselves of the black stains these deeds had left on their hearts, like spilled ink that refused to fade. Amras remembered his brothers waking up from nightmares time and time again, their eyes wild and bright as memories held them in their grasp, and he remembered the faces of Elves whose light had left their eyes. After we killed them.
It was Curufin who broke the silence. "Well. Dior should know better than to keep what is not his. We asked politely; now he is asking for drastic measures."
Celegorm nodded in agreement, as did — though more hesitantly — Caranthir and Maglor. Maedhros' mien was stone, unreadable.
Nobody had asked Amras what he thought, and he made no move to express himself either. He was staring at his hands still, watching them clench into fists, knuckles white. Yes, they had done this before. Kin against kin, steel drawing blood. They had survived and acquired what they had come for.
The ships... those accursed ships. But what for? Amrod had perished on those ships, like a final tribute being claimed by fate when Fëanáro had set them on fire. The cost had been too great, immeasurable.
Amras wondered whose life it would cost to take that Silmaril from Dior. It had already taken Thingol's, Beren's and Lúthien's, if rumours could be believed; it would take more than just Dior's. It would take his brothers' lives as well.
And that thought, even as they argued among themselves and nobody paid him any mind, was unbearable.
His fists slammed down on the table, hard enough to hurt, but Amras felt nothing. All that mattered was that all eyes were suddenly on him.
"If Angband can neither be assailed nor infiltrated and we would rather avoid attacking Doriath, why not infiltrate it instead?"
It was the first time he had spoken this loudly in decades, if not centuries. His voice, though clear in the moment, quickly began to grow hoarse and fail him. But Amras wouldn't back down, not this time.
"And who will do it and how?" As always, Celegorm was swift to counter.
"There is some logic to what you are saying," Maglor said thoughtfully, "but Celegorm raises a valid point."
Maedhros remained quiet, deep in thought. To his own surprise, Amras found that his brothers' lack of enthusiasm did little to shake his conviction.
"I can do it. Amrod and I used to sneak around all the time."
"You do realise that infiltrating a previously hidden kingdom is not comparable to a few childhood adventures, yes?" Caranthir asked, narrowing his eyes.
Amras knew not to take his dismissive attitude seriously. It's just Caranthir. He's always like this. Even so, he found that his words hurt just a little.
"You realise that we have always been hunters and trackers too, even if we may not have been as good or as close to Oromë as Celegorm was?" he bit back.
Caranthir, still unimpressed, shrugged his shoulders.
"And there is no we," Curufin opined. "Amrod... well... unfortunately he cannot–"
"You don't need to remind me that my twin brother is dead, Curufin, I am aware," Amras interrupted him, his tone icy. "But it seems that I have to remind you of me being my own person with my own skills."
As far as his brothers were concerned, he meant it; as far as he was, it was a lie. He had never felt complete since Amrod's death. He had never felt like he could do all the things they had once done together on his own, certainly not as well. Maedhros had learned to use his left hand after losing his right, while Amras still felt like he was sloppy and lacking and would forever be. But nobody needed to know that. All that mattered to him now was how unbearable his existence of waiting and being pushed and dragged around had become and how much he feared to lose his other brothers.
He wanted to try to do something. And if it killed him, he was fine with that. He had long since made peace with that outcome, even before the siege of Angband. His conviction hadn't wavered since then.
At last, Maedhros spoke up again. "Amras." His voice was soft, too soft, and Amras hated it. "We know what you are capable of and we care about you. This is why we don't want to lose you. You would be safer with us–"
"There is no safer," Amras spat. "Last I heard the plan was to invade Doriath and kill anyone who stands in our way, how on Arda is that safe? What do you think happens then? Who do you think dies this time?"
Maedhros lowered his head, and it seemed to Amras that he had hit a nerve; however, he had no time to feel bad about it. Not now.
Celegorm eyed him with something akin to respect. "I think he has a point. If we want a... gentler solution for Dior's stubbornness, this is it. And I would agree that, among us, Amras is well-suited for such a task."
"His absence may also be easier to conceal, given how he hasn't been drawing as much attention to himself as others here have," Caranthir commented dryly. It was pointedly ignored by Celegorm and Curufin.
Maglor had been eyeing Amras silently, waiting for their gazes to meet. "Are you sure about this? We can–"
"I mean it."
Silence fell again. It was so quiet that they could hear Maedhros exhale in defeat.
"Very well. In this case I suggest that we collect all information we have on Doriath while Amras makes plans and preparations in the meantime."
Curufin promptly stood up. "I shall have a word with our informants."
Caranthir followed. "Likewise. And Celegorm–"
"I would have thought to ask my hunters, thank you," Celegorm cut him off.
Maglor looked at Maedhros. "Should I try having a word with our cousins? Eärwen's kin, I mean?"
Maedhros shook his head. "Even if they speak to you, they would be quick to guess your motives."
"They are Dior's kin too, they might warn him," Celegorm added grimly.
"Then I shall look for existing maps of Doriath instead," Maglor decided.
Amras once again remained quiet, and Maedhros held his gaze until he too rose from the table and made his way to his quarters.