Forgiveness

“I forgive you,” Maedhros was startled to hear those words from behind him. Quickly he turned, only to stare in shock at who exactly had found him in this deep and lonely section of the Halls.

Smiling sadly, Dior continued, “May I talk to you for a little while?”

Nodding, Maedhros was still wary of actually speaking. He hoped that this was not some trick his imagination was playing on him, brought upon him by his refusal to leave this portion of the Halls and talk to anyone else.

Dior sat – as much as any of them could actually sit. Anything they did in the Halls was less fulfilling than it had been in their real lives, a somewhat cruel mockery of what they had been. Maedhros had glimpsed a few of his relatives that had never accepted that fact, preferring to put of a pretense that it was actually the same. Angrod had insisted that Namo install a bath for them to use, preferring to continue in such a pointless activity to abandoning the type of life he had lived for so many years.

Maedhros tore himself from his thoughts when he saw Dior looking at him, managing to seem at once regal and doomed. It had been years since Maedhros had last persisted in looking regal when he spoke to others. In fact, he had given up all such ideas when he had held Amrod in his arms in Sirion, as Amrod had babbled about his life. He had finally quieted down, only whispering the name of his twin as he had finally, mercifully died. Maedhros had removed Amrod’s circlet from his head, and placed it into the box where he had kept mementos of his other dead relatives. When he had finished looking at them, he had removed his own circlet, and put it in the box as well, telling Maglor that there was no use for such Princely ideas, when all the Princes save two were dead.

“Forgive me; I shall not take much of your time, Son of Fëanor. However, I must speak to you,” Dior said, motioning at him.

Maedhros smiled, trying to place himself back in that long forgotten position, having enough pride that he had no wish to appear as a simpleton to one so much younger than him. They lacked the wine and chairs that would have been his preference in life, so instead he tilted his head forward, looking down at Dior. “Speak, if that is your wish. I have few pressing matters on my schedule.” As he finished, he chuckled inwardly. Few pressing matters was almost true, no matters at all was more correct.

“I have been considering the events of my life in more detail, and as I said before, I have forgiven you,” Dior said slowly.

Maedhros heard an undercurrent of something in Dior’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to care what it was. “And? Your forgiveness means little to me, Dior Eluchil. I neither desire nor deserve forgiveness.”

“Neither do I, but I wish to grant it,” Dior’s eyes flashed as he spoke, showing some of the famous temper that his grandfather had possessed.

“What have you done that you would not deserve forgiveness for? You were the Prince of Doriath, merely trying to protect yourself against the evil sons of Fëanor who invaded your lands.” Maedhros spoke, this time chuckling aloud, in a despairing tone that made Dior shiver.

Still, he continued to press on. “My wife does not see things that way.”

“A curious circumstance, undoubtedly, but I fail to see what the opinions of Nimloth have to do with your forgiving me, or coming here to disturb me,” Maedhros spoke pleasantly, in the manner of a man hiding behind frivolity to avoid any deeper discussions.  

“She says that at least Fëanor and his sons did not lead their young, innocent children to death. She has not forgiven me, you see, for not giving the Silmaril back when I should have known what the end result would be. And thereby indirectly killing our sons,” at this, Dior’s voice finally cracked, revealing his anguish at the loss of his beloved wife and sons.

Maedhros stared at the wall, battling away the memories of children left to die in the woods, to be devoured by wolves or frozen by ice, and his own failure to find those children after being informed of their fate. “So out of belief that you indirectly killed your sons, you come to one of the people responsible for killing them and speak of forgiveness?”

“You did not kill my sons. I know that you searched through the woods for them,” Dior’s voice cracked again. “Vairë showed it to me in her tapestries one day, showed me how the elves that had attacked my kingdom had also put more thought into the care of my sons than I had!” Dior’s voice shattered on the final word, breaking down into sobs.

Maedhros was unable to comfort him. He had not put more thought into Dior’s sons than Dior had. He had been a massive failure each time he tried to protect any set of twins. With Amrod and Amras, or Elurin and Elured, he had been powerless to stop them from meeting their fate. Only Maglor had ever been able to keep anyone from dying. There were times that Maedhros resented his brother for that hated his brother for that. But then he would remember the look that he had seen as he jumped to his death, the look of pure anguish on Maglor’s face as he had screamed out for Maedhros, unable to follow because Maedhros had made Maglor promise that whatever happened, Maglor would continue to live. Then he was unable to hate Maglor, because in the end Maglor had been forced to watch him die.

As Maedhros was paralyzed by his thoughts, Dior slowly managed to pull himself together. “And then, my daughter - my pride and joy – went farther than I ever did. I never made the decision to leave my children all alone to face kin-slayers by themselves. Children are supposed to be precious, loved, and my daughter threw that all away. I will never see both of my grandsons, Maedhros. But you have. Please, I don’t want to know much, I can see it on the tapestries if I wish. But were they happy with your brother and you?”

Maedhros forced himself to look Dior in the face, seeing more of himself in him than he wished to. “I think so, yes. Elrond especially.”

At that, Dior smiled sadly again. “He acknowledges you as his Uncle, you know. He doesn’t speak of my sons as his uncles. They are nothing more than afterthoughts to him. But you…I do not begrudge him the happiness he has found.” Dior stood finally, but didn’t leave. “You could have happiness, you know. Your family would welcome you back in ways that mine will not. Your father is here, your brothers adore you, and Fingon would welcome you with open arms.”

With those final words, Dior disappeared into another part of Mandos, leaving Maedhros to his thoughts.