The History of the Silmarils - Season 2, Episode 4

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The History of the Silmarils - Season 2, Episode 4

Post by Elentári »

Season 2 Episode 4 (Being the final episode in the Tale of Fëanor)

Episode opens with a shot of a giant eagle perched on a crag, high up in the Ered Wethrin. It is preening itself; it cocks it head, as though it has caught a sound on the wind, and immediately the bird takes to wing. Camera follows it as it soars on the thermal currents out away from the mountains. The bird circles high over Lake Mithrim, and the camera looks down over the activity below: On the Northern shore there is a shimmering sea of blue and silver banners, glorious in the sunlight. The eagle swoops down for a closer look…

Fade in to Fingolfin’s camp. Tents are set up, cooking fires are lit, it is clear the Noldor are making themselves at home as best they can. Some mend clothing, many sharpen weapons. Focus on Turgon, sharpening a spear. Fingon and Finrod approach warily.

Fingon: Turgon, come get some food.
Turgon: In a moment. I am nearly satisfied.
Finrod: You have sharpened that point almost daily since we stopped before the gates of that hell-keep. You will have nothing left.
Turgon: I expect to use it soon. Once we have run Fëanor to ground I mean to drive this through his black heart.
Fingon: As you will, brother. But I would think after eating nothing but fish for so long the food would be welcome. There are deer enough in this land, and rabbit, and the game birds are quite tasty.
[Turgon nods and continues sharpening the spear. Fingon lays a hand on his shoulder, then both Fingon and Finrod turn away. Camera follows them as they walk left.]
Fingon: He worries me sometimes…most of the time, in truth.
Finrod: Can you blame him? He lost as much as any of us on this mad trek, and more than some. Payment must be made for all we have suffered.
Fingon: Not you too. I had hoped there was one sane person in this camp. Like the rest, you would blame all of our kin who followed Uncle Fëanor for his abandoning us to the ice.
Finrod: Every one of them who did not stop the ships from burning is as guilty of the act as the one whose hand set the blaze. I want justice.
Fingon: Yes. And I want to get inside those guarded walls and cleanse the land of our foes with fire and sword. And I want a good horse, a pair of clean socks, and the leisure to play ball until I am so breathless I cannot stand. I will settle for finding Ada and getting a bowl of stew in my stomach.

[Shift to Fingolfin standing apart, with two Scouts who look sweaty and windblown. Fingolfin nods and pats one of the Scouts on the shoulder as Fingon and Finrod approach. Fingolfin turns toward them, looking both grim and satisfied.]
Fingolfin: We will have news from our kinsmen soon enough!
Finrod: You really mean to send messengers? [Turgon approaches, spear still in hand]Fingon: To warn them?
Fingolfin: [nods] I think that would be best. Many of our people feel none too kindly toward those who followed Fëanor. Another round of kinslaying would accomplish our great enemy’s work for him.
Turgon: [incredulous] You do not intend to allow Uncle Fëanor’s treachery to pass unchallenged?
Fingolfin: [firmly] I mean to make my brother account for his wrongs to all of us, and sue for pardon. I do not intend to be the cause of war between his people and mine, not when we have come so far and through so many trials to finally see the land of our father’s birth.
Finrod: [to Scout] How far is their camp?
Scout 1: Not far, my lord. A short day’s travel from where we now stand. They are across the Lake, in the foothills of the mountains, well fortified and prepared for attack.
Fingolfin: It is well. [to Scouts] Both of you eat and rest well this night. As soon as it is light enough to travel, I will give you a message to carry to my brother in his camp. We wait for your return.
[Scouts bow and exit right. Turgon scowls.]
Turgon: [angrily] I still mean to bring my grievance home to Fëanor, and all those who follow him. I would count them kin and friends no longer, and I am not the only one to feel this way.
Fingon: Would you battle enemies both before and behind? At least until Morgoth is kennelled we must deal softly with those who may well support our quarrel with the Dark Lord.
Finrod: The foe at your back is more dangerous than the foe before you.
Fingolfin: [walks to a stew pot. Picks up a bowl, fills bowl with stew.] Peace! I hear this argument day and night. I would enjoy my supper without such seasoning.
[Fingon and Turgon glance at each other. Both pick up bowls.]
Turgon: I seem to have lost my appetite… [dumps his bowl in Fingon’s hands and storms off. Fingon hesitates, then shrugs and helps himself to the stew. Camera drops to stew pot, focus on bubbling stew. Fade.]

Cut back to eagle again who soars away to the south: on the south side of the Lake, closer to the foothills, lies the Fëanorian camp, far more subdued than that of their kin. The once bright standards of the House of Fëanor are battle-scarred and forlorn. Noldor soldiers are huddled in groups round campfires, or working contemplatively on their equipment. There is an air of apprehension and sorrow over the entire camp.

Celegorm exercises Huan, throwing sticks for him to chase, but he glances habitually across the water; Maglor paces in the Command tent whilst Caranthir and Curufin engage in some half-hearted training. Some Elven children, including Giemma, stand and stare across the Lake at the bright company opposite. Amras and Amrod walk past, and the children call to them to come and look. Amras glances at his brother and goes over to the children, who point excitedly, asking lots of questions. Amras shrugss and shakes his head, though he too stares, lost in thought until Amrod jolts him out of his daydreams by placing a hand on his shoulder. Together they distract the children with a ball game. Suddenly a shout goes up that someone is approaching. Camera swings round to show Fingolfin’s scout nearing the camp. The tension is suddenly overwhelming as everyone becomes alert, awaiting the first word from their kin. Maglor comes out of his tent and his brothers join him, standing shoulder to shoulder to meet the emissary. Cut.]

* * *

Cut back to Fingolfins’ camp. Turgon is sitting on a rotten log, taking out his frustration by whittling a piece of wood. His daughter Idril is playing nearby, drawing patterns in the sandy ground with a stick. After a while she comes over to see what her father is doing. As she sits next to him on the log she disturbs a spider, which runs back into a crack in the surface of the log. Idril gets down on her hands and knees and peers into the end of the log.

Idril: Ada, look! The spider has made his home in here – there is a huge sticky web across this end… and lots of dead flies stuck in it, Uggh!
Turgon: [grunts]
Idril: [fascinated] Ada..come look! The spider is back in the web now – how can such thin threads support the weight of that big fat spider?
Turgon: Well, it is a marvel of nature, Itarillë… each strand locks with, and supports the others so that the whole can withstand forces far greater than what a single strand can bear.
Idril: But what if one breaks?
Turgon: Then the whole web is weakened… [stops whittling,stares for a moment, then buries his face in his hands.]
Idril: [concerned] Ada?
Turgon: [exhales deeply and rubs his faces with his hands.] Come here, daughter! [Idril stands and walks over to her father, who hugs her to him fiercely with tears in his eyes. Fade.]

* * *

Cut to scene inside Fingolfin’s tent. Fingolfin is standing over a table with maps outspread, discussing tactics with Fingon. They look up as Turgon enters: his face is dark and grim, his red-rimmed eyes as sharp as flint. Fingon takes one look at his brother’s face, and decides to make a hasty exit…
Fingon: I will go and see if there is any news yet… [bows and leaves the tent.]

Fingolfin moves over to a smaller table where a pitcher of wine is set with goblets, and fills two. He offers one to Turgon, who demurs with a shake of his head. Fingolfin takes a slow sip, maintaining a calm air…he raises his eyebrows at Turgon, indicating that he should speak:
Turgon: [in a tight voice] I want you to know that I no longer hate you for your decision…
Fingolfin: [warmly] I am pleased to hear it.
Turgon: I understand now why you must seek Fëanor, despite all that he has done to us. [pauses, then continues with great effort to keep his voice level] I know that the lies of Morgoth underlie even Fëanor’s treachery; we are weakened without his people and we need them to join us against this greater shared enemy. I have come to understand that Elenwë’s death is just one of many- [his face crumples and he turns away from his father’s gaze. Fingolfin starts to move towards him to offer comfort, then holds himself back, knowing that his son would not appreciate it.]
Turgon: [wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic and turns back to Fingolfin.] And so, I will forgive you, even if you grant him pardon: I will stand at your side when our people are reunited, and will say no word against it.
Fingolfin: [nods] I hear you, and I am grateful [Turgon bows, and Fingolfin holds out his arms to welcome Turgon into an embrace, but Turgon’s face has hardened again and he looks away at the sound of footsteps outside the tent. Fingolfin drops his arms as Fingon hurries into the tent; as he enters the scout can be glimpsed, hovering outside. Fingon’s face is lined with worry and his voice strained.]
Fingon: Ada…
Fingolfin: [unable to hide his eagerness] My son…what news? Will my half-brother accept my pardon? [as Fingon hesitates, his breath suddenly catches in his throat, and he is fearful of the answer]
Fingon: [bewildered] He cannot….he is dead! [Cut.]

* * *

Scene opens again on lingering shot of a group of aeglos bushes… the normally pure white flowers tinged blood red in the setting sun…Cut back to scene inside the tent. Time has passed, and the scout is nearing the end of his report:
Scout: ...Fëanor’s last actions were to curse the Dark Lord three times, and to hold his sons to uphold the Oath in his stead.
Fingolfin: [sighs heavily and speaks almost to himself] Is there to be no end to this madness? [addresses scout again] Did Fëanor show any sign of repentance for his crimes? Was he aware of the repercussions of his actions?
Scout: Not that I was made aware of, my Lord, although apparently he did realize ‘ere his final breath, that the taking of Angband was beyond the capabilities of the Noldor alone…
Turgon: [snorts derisively] As we also have seen for ourselves…
Fingolfin: [frowns at Turgon, places hand on scout’s shoulder] You have done well again, Gelmir…please, take some well-earned rest-
Gelmir: [shakes head] -My Lord, I have more news, and these tidings are no better than the first!
Fingolfin: Speak, son of Guilin! What can possibly be worse than the loss of my half-brother?
Gelmir: [moistens lips] Ah, unfortunately, it seems that within the hour of the Lord Fëanor’s death, Morgoth sent an embassy to the Lord Maedhros, feigning surrender, and offering to discuss terms, even hinting that the Dark Lord would consider returning a Silmaril… [murmurs and sharp intake of breath from Fingolfin and sons]
Fingon: [shifts his weight on feet uncomfortably] Surely Maedhros did not fall for that ruse?
Gelmir: Apparently both sides thought to cheat on the other, taking more to the place appointed for parley than agreed. Sadly, Morgoth, as should have been expected, played the better game, and sent Balrogs, against which Maedhros’ force had no chance. All were slain…
Fingon: [exclaims] No!
Gelmir: …with the exception of the Lord Maedhros…
Fingolfin: [relieved] Thank Eru!
Gelmir: …who was captured alive and taken to Angband as hostage against further attack by the Noldor.
Fingolfin: [sinks into chair, stunned]
Fingon: [weakly] What terms did Morgoth set for his release?
Turgon: [harshly] What do you care, brother? He abandoned us to the ice, and my wife to her death… [Turns and exits tent. Fade.]

* * *
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Post by Elentári »


Scene opens the following morning in Fingolfin’s camp: The sons of Fëanor are approaching the camp. Elves are gathered a short distance from the tents, observing the newcomers. They appear angry, some with shoulders squared and ready for a fight, others hang their heads. Focus on Thraldor, near the middle, surrounded by surly looking Elves. The Sons walk shoulder to shoulder, staring back at the crowd defiantly. Huan trots beside Celegorm, sniffing the air eagerly.

Shift to Fingolfin, waiting for them to reach him. Fingon and Turgon are standing either side of him. Aredhel lines up just behind Turgon, holding Idril’s hand. The rest gather around. Camera focuses on Finrod, Galadriel, Angrod, and Aegnor individually scattered among the company.

Fingolfin: [steps forward] Welcome, nephew and kinsman, though your tidings are bleak… Fate has decreed that we meet again in the very hour when your aid is of most use.
Maglor: [awkwardly] It is good to see you again, my Lord and Uncle.
Turgon: And no less surprising that you would face us, after you –
Fingolfin: [sharply, to Turgon] We will not speak of the past.
Maglor: I think we must. If there is to be peace between us then this wound must be cleansed before it festers beyond recovery. [kneels] As lord of all who followed my father into exile, I ask your pardon for our desertion of you in Araman, and the betrayal of our kinship. We repent dearly of the burning of the ships – it was a moment of folly, instigated by our headstrong father, who had descended into madness by this time, though we were not fully aware of the depths of his insanity.
Fingolfin: [thoughtfully] I can well believe that the fault began with your father… yet you are his sons and accomplices: responsible for your own actions. Why should my people forgive you for their abandonment? Your actions left us a choice between returning to Valinor to face the wrath of the Valar, or enduring the perils of the Grinding Ice.
Maglor: There is no reason, my Lord…except that your people and ours are kin, torn asunder by circumstances. A nation divided is a nation more easily conquered. We should stand united and face a common enemy together.
Fingolfin: [lays hand on Maglor’s bowed head] You speak wisely, for all your tender years, Nephew. And so I give pardon freely to all who wronged us. Let us stand together against our foes and not quarrel amongst ourselves. [Cut to Thraldor]
Thraldor: [whispers to those around him] And thus are all wrongs set right. Except for those who cannot be brought back from the ice, but he forgets about them. [Cut to Maglor, who rises and stands beside Fingolfin. Camera follows them as they move through the gathered Elves into Fingolfin’s tent. Camera pans back round to show the remaining brothers left waiting awkwardly. Fade.]

Fade back into scene…The brothers are standing around awkwardly. Most of Fingolfin’s people go about their business either ignoring them, or muttering pointedly as they pass; camera focus on Thraldor, who continues to eye the borthers sourly from a distance.. Shift to the Command Tent. Cut inside, where Fingolfin and Maglor stand around the diagram of Angband’s walls.

Maglor: Even with your force, Uncle, we have not enough to breach those walls. Lives needlessly thrown against such a fortress will never free Maedhros, nor liberate the jewels Morgoth stole from Father.
Fingolfin: [nods] You did right to withdraw to a strong place. That you have taken charge, rather than one of your more reckless brothers, must show that Manwë has not forgotten us entirely.
Maglor: I never wanted to lead this enterprise... [hangs head, shoulders drop] All I have done has been to wait while Maedhros remains imprisoned. I am glad you are here to take the burden. I am tired. So damn tired and heart weary…
Fingolfin: [hugs Maglor] I think I could have done no better than you in this. Perhaps together we will forge a clearer path. [Sounds of a fight from outside the tent. Fingolfin and Maglor exit].

Camera shift to outside, where Thraldor and a group of Elves are facing Caranthir and Celegorm. All are armed. Huan is bearing his teeth and Celegorm is trying to restrain him.

Thraldor: Who will stop us? Not these cowards who have no heart for battle!
Caranthir: And where were you while we were slaying our foes? Whining your way across at a leisurely pace?
Thraldor: You call the Helcaraxë a pleasure stroll? [stabs a spear at Caranthir, who dodges easily]
Caranthir: I call you a fool who mocks his betters! [seizes spear, disarms Thraldor. Thraldor’s followers grumble dangerously.]
Fingolfin: Hold! Stay this madness.
Maglor: What are you thinking? [to Caranthir] Would you again shed the blood of our own kin?
Caranthir: I would not be called coward!
Turgon: [to Fingolfin, points at Caranthir] He mocks our passage over the ice! He would count our losses as nothing compared to what they suffered gladly!
Fingon: [to Caranthir] Call me coward? You son of a hound!
[Caranthir starts for Fingon, fists raised. Maglor steps between them, glaring at Fingon while restraining Caranthir.]
Maglor: [to Fingon] Say that again and face me as well! [to Caranthir] Restrain yourself, brother, or I will see it done. We cannot afford this quarrelling.

Thraldor: Let the weak ones squabble among themselves. Those of us with the will to defeat Morgoth could be relaxing inside his walls this night without their dead weight to slow us.
Fingolfin: [exasperated, to Thraldor] I am tempted to allow you to try it.
Elf 1: [to Fingolfin, points vaguely at Sons] My lord, they abandoned us. Reparations are owed!
Celegorm: And have we not paid overmuch already for what was beyond our control to stop? Let them take up their fight with the one who set the ships to blazing.
Maglor: You were not guiltless. None of us were. [to Fingolfin] This is never going to succeed...
Fingolfin: I fear you are right. Return to your people…your camp is on the far shore of the great lake. Perhaps then there will be space enough between our followers to prevent another adventure in bloodletting.
Maglor: I agree with you, as much as I wish it were not so.
[Fingolfin turns to exit left. Camera focus on Maglor, Fade.]

[Cut to Sons preparing to depart. A Noldor Elf and his wife approach Maglor, hesitantly…]
Male Elf: My Lord, if it is not too much trouble, we were wondering, well, if you could put us out of our misery and tell us if you have seen our daughter…
Female Elf: A slip of a girl, she is, our Giemma, but no trouble, you would scarce have noticed her…
Male Elf: She boarded one of the ships back in Araman, but there was no room for us, and we told her we’d come for her on the next crossing, once the ships were sent back… [Maglor reddens, and tenses, looking at his feet in shame.] Oh, no, my Lord! we understand that your father was not himself, and hold no blame against yourself or your brothers.
Female Elf: [anxiously] Please say she is accounted for among your company…it was only the thought of seeing our daughter again that kept us going through the terrible journey over the Ice…
Maglor: [relieved, smiles at the couple] Yes, yes, of course! Young Giemma is fine, she has been looked after by some of our people once we realized she was alone…she follows Amras and Amrod around like a younger sister, and they have grown quite fond of her! [couple embrace one another in joy and relief]
Maglor: Return to our camp with us and be reunited! [couple thank Maglor profusely, and hurry off to fetch their belongings.]

[Fingon approaches, apparently angry. Curufin and Caranthir follow him.]

Fingon: I will hear no more of it! We were once friends, and though the bond of kinship remains our friendship cannot.
Curufin: How glad I am to see it does not harm you at all to break old ties.
Fingon: Those ties were broken when you abandoned us to the mercy of the ice.
Caranthir: The ships did not burn by any hand here.
Fingon: I care not. All who stood by are as guilty as the one who set the flames.
Curufin: That is a bit unreasonable!
Fingon: So was Elenwë’s death! [turns on Curufin] Do you want to tell Idril why her mother died? How about telling her for the tenth time that her mother isn’t ever coming to tuck her in! It makes for a fine evening’s entertainment!
Curufin: [dumbstruck] Elenwë is dead?
Caranthir: [mortified] We didn’t know.
Fingon: Now it matters? Because you can put a name to the corpse floating in a frozen sea?
Caranthir: I am sorry for it. [exits, looking ashamed]
Curufin: I too am sorry for her loss.
Fingon: Then show it. Absent yourself so we do nott have to look at your face.
Curufin: I will. [hesitates] Not all of us stood by while Ada burned those ships. You should know that much.
Fingon: [scornfully] Who protested? None that I see here.
Curufin: [bitterly] Maedhros tried to stop Ada, and nearly got his jaw broken for his trouble. He meant to go back for you, even if no one else did. I thought you should know… [Fingon looks stunned. Curufin exits left]
[Camera follows Fingon as he walks right. Focus on his face, thinking. Fingon turns to stare at the distant shadow of Angband. Camera fade.]

* * *

Fade in on sunset over hills. Shift down to Fingolfin’s camp. Focus on Fingon’s tent. Shift inside. Fingon is fastening straps on a large pack. He is dressed for travel and wears light armor. Turgon and Fingolfin stand near the door of the tent, obviously disapproving.
Fingolfin: [exasperated] Explain to me why you must throw yourself into peril now, when our people most need strong leaders to guide them!
Turgon: I have the explanation. My dear brother found wine somewhere and has lost his wits.
Fingon: Say what you like. My mind is fixed to this.
Turgon: Truly that is a surprise; you being stubborn.
Fingon: And that is the pot speaking of the kettle, brother. [to Fingolfin] We have no shortage of strong leaders, Father. So long as you are with us our people are in no danger. As to my quest, would you leave your kin in such a prison if you could give him aid?
Fingolfin: I am not against an attempt to rescue Maedhros. I am against you throwing away your life in a foolish attempt that can do him no good at all. We cannot afford the luxury of wasted lives.
Turgon: Do you think this is no more than another harebrained adventure the two of you can boast of later? I remember well how the last one turned out.
Fingon: [grins briefly] You have to admit, brother, that was one worthy of retelling.
Turgon: I enjoyed it as much as you did, but we are no longer children and this is no game.
Fingolfin: Two days past you were among the least ready to forgive those who abandoned us. Now, with little apparent reason, you take up this mad scheme. Explain your change of heart to me, if indeed you can.
Fingon: [tests weight of pack] Perhaps I saw wisdom in your wish to mend the differences between ourselves and those who followed Fëanor.
Fingolfin: [doubtful] Perhaps.
Fingon: And perhaps I do this in order to discover what really happened on that shore.
Turgon: We all know what happened. We could see the flames.
Fingon: [to Turgon] Maedhros, at least, did not abandon us. He tried to stop Fëanor burning the ships. He tried to bring us across.
Turgon: [bitterly] He tried. To what good?
Fingon: Yes, brother. He tried. And now I shall try. Should I succeed, perhaps this bitterness shall be laid to rest.
Turgon: And if you fail?
Fingon: Then you may have the satisfaction of being right. [shoulders pack, picks up bow and quiver. Checks sword in scabbard on his belt and small kindling axe in a sheath next to sword.] Kiss Idril good night for me, if you would?
Turgon: What shall I tell her if you do not return?
Fingon: Tell her that at least I tried. [exits tent. Camera shift from Turgon to Fingolfin, both looking worried.]

Turgon: [softly] Do you think there is a chance Maedhros is still alive, even if Fingon manages to slip past Angband’s defences?
Fingolfin: If he has not forsaken hope, then his spirit burns yet, and I hope it always shall. But the fate of Fëanor’s sons, and all those who will stand with them now is marred. [Cut.]

* * * * * * *

Cut to Mountains. Fingon climbs over rough rocks. He pauses to shift his pack, glances at the clear sky, then continues. He reaches the top of the pass. Camera pans toward Angband. Dark clouds cover the sky, fires flare below. Dark flying creatures whirl above the barren land. Cut.

Cut to Pass of Sirion. Fingon picks his way down the cut. He reaches the Eithel Sirion. Water bubbles through rocks, collecting in pools that grow progressively larger and deeper. Fingon squats beside one, dips his hand in and sniffs the water. He tastes it cautiously, then drinks deeply and fills a water skin. Cut.

Cut to Plains of Anfauglith. Winged creatures cross the sky. Lightning strikes the mountains. Camera pan down to plain. Fingon crouches in a low spot, glances up, darts to the next scant piece of cover. Pan up to Winged creature, which wheels back and moves lower as if searching. Cut to Fingon, who fits an arrow to his bow cautiously. Winged creature turns away. Fingon hurries into a darker patch of shadow. Pan up to smoky sky with a few stars struggling through. Fade.

* * * * * * *

Scene open in Fëanorian Camp, southern shore of Lake Mithrim. Maglor and his brothers are returning, with Giemma’s parents. As the camera winds through the camp it picks out various tableaux of abandoned activities – wood still half-chopped, washing half-hung on lines, pans of water boiling away over the fires, etc. Eventually we see that the bulk of the Fëanorians are gathered around half-a-dozen Sindarin elves. . They are busy in conversation with the Noldor, who excitedly examine the attire of the Grey-elves, particularly the grey cloaks, similar to the “magic” cloaks of Lothlórien, and the various examples of their wood-craft, leather-working and weaponry, etc. The Sindar in turn are interested in the weightier Noldorin weapons. Amrod is testing the strength of a Sindarin long-bow. Giemma and some other children are shyly watching one of the Grey-Elves who is demonstrating birdcalls … Amras is deep in dialogue with one of the Grey-elves. He turns as he hears his brothers approach.

Amras: Well met, Brothers! As you can see, we have visitors, come in friendship from the land of our distant kin who did not make the Great Journey. This is Daeron, minstrel and loremaster of the Kingdom of Doriath… Daeron, this is our brother, Maglor, our leader in King Maedhros’ unfortunate absence.
Daeron: [bows.] I bring you warmest greetings from my King, Elu Thingol, Lord of Beleriand. Tidings of your peoples’ great deeds have reached his ears in the fair city of Menegroth,, and we have been filled with wonder and hope.
Maglor: And I too am pleased to meet some of our long-lost brethren. I trust my younger brothers have made you welcome in my absence? [suddenly a cry of joy goes up as Giemma catches sight of her parents; she runs to them as they hurry toward her with open arms. Amrod looks up from his discussion with another Sindar and smiles warmly]
Amrod: [calls across] A good day’s work, I see! How did you find our Uncle?
Celegorm: He, at least, accepted the supplication we offered in good faith…
Maglor: [frowns at brothers] We will talk more of that later! [the other Sindarin elf approaches, bows]
Mablung: I am Mablung, Captain and chief huntsman of Thingol-King. Our people welcome your help in the defence against Morgoth…surely you have been sent to us in our very hour of need. Are you not emissaries of the Valar come to deliver us from the evil tyrant?
Caranthir: [snorts in disgust] We came not at the bidding of the Valar, but at the behest of our father, driven by grief at the death of Finwë, our King, by Morgoth’s hand. We have sworn unending vengeance against him.
Celegorm: How fares your people’s battle against the Dark Enemy?
Mablung: We have had some small victories, but those have been dear-bought. Our Nandor brethren from Ossiriand lost their leader and all his nearest kin to the Orc army you destroyed, and our kin at the Havens of the Falas were besieged against the rim of the sea for some months, until your presence drew the enemy away.
Daeron: Thus our King has withdrawn all our people within the fastness of Doriath, and our Queen has put forth her power and fenced all that land with an unseen wall of shadow and bewilderment. None may pass into our guarded kingdom against her will or the will of King Thingol.
Maglor: Then, it seems we enjoy a watchful peace… [Cut.]

* * * * * * * *

There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
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Post by Elentári »


Cut to base of Thangorodrim. A group of Orcs march past, tired and grumbling. After they leave, Fingon slips out of a shadow. His sword catches a scant bit of light and shines faintly. He looks up, tests a handhold, and then begins to climb the cliff. Camera follows as he climbs, shadows shift to indicate time passing. At last he stops on a ledge. He looks right, left, up, down, and camera follows his line of sight. Nothing but barren rock. Fingon pulls his water skin and drinks. He shifts his pack off and pulls out a packet of nuts. He eats a bit, leans against the rock and sighs.

Fingon: Where are you, cousin? Tell me not that I come too late! [sighs] Oh, Morgoth take it all! I am getting nowhere but lost!
[Fingon pulls a harp case from his pack, takes out the small harp, and begins to pluck strings idly. Adjusts tuning, begins to play. When nothing comes to the sound he plays louder and begins to sing. He hesitates, his voice choked with emotion, picks up the song again, then stops singing and just plays. Cut.]

* * *

[Cut to Taniquetil. Manwë stands on a marble patio, surrounded by blooming trees. A few Elves move about tending the trees or sit, singing and playing harps and lutes, or work on crafts. Camera shift to horizon, where an Eagle approaches. Manwë extends his arm and the Eagle lands on it. Manwë holds the Eagle as if it weighs nothing.]
Eagle: [inclines head] Great Lord of the World, I bring news.
Manwë: Speak.
Eagle: Brave doings in the Dark Land. . . [Camera fade.]

* * *

[Cut to cliffs of Thangorodrim. Fingon plays the harp, his voice choked. He stops singing. Maedhros’ voice comes faintly, picking up the song. Fingon freezes, glances up, and sees something move in a shadow far above and right of where he is. He sings louder, and Maedhros answers. Fingon returns the harp to his pack, shoulders the pack, and begins climbing again. He reaches a narrow ledge and looks up. The cliff is too steep and smooth to climb further. Camera pan to Maedhros, focus on his single bound arm now swollen and bloody from his struggles. Maedhros is very thin, ragged, exhausted and hollow eyed.]

Fingon: [whisper] Damn the cruelty! How could Eru permit such a fate for one of his children? [shouts] Maedhros!
Maedhros: [weak] I am here.
Fingon: Hold on. Help is coming.
Maedhros: Not so loud! Orcs are not deaf.
[Fingon tries again to climb further. His hand slips, a toehold crumbles, and he barely saves himself from falling by catching the ledge again.]
Maedhros: Just shoot me.
Fingon: What? I can make it up there.
Maedhros: It is too steep. The Orcs will not be gone long.
Fingon: Do not surrender so easily!
Maedhros: I beg you, cousin! End my life!
Fingon: No!
Maedhros: I can bear this no longer. Please! If ever you cared for me, end it now!
[Fingon tries to climb again, nearly falls again. He searches for another way up, finally realizes it is hopeless. He pulls an arrow from his quiver but his fingers are shaking so badly he drops it.]
Maedhros: [urgently] Hurry, I beg you! Or you may be hung with me.
[Fingon nocks an arrow and draws his bow. His hands are shaking badly. Camera shift down arrow, focus on Maedhros. Maedhros draws a deep breath and closes his eyes. A tear trickles down his cheek.]
Fingon: [whispers prayer] O King, to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!
[An Eagle screams. Fingon turns, relaxing his bow as he does. Thorondor flies straight toward Fingon. Thorondor dives steeply, then flaps back as it aims for the ledge. Fingon stumbles back, nearly falling as he makes room for the bird. Thorondor lands on the ledge and settles his feathers.]

Thorondor: Hail, Prince of the House of Finwë. I am Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles of the Crissaegrim. The Lord of the Breath of Arda has not forgotten those who are now exiled from the Western Lands. He sends me to aid you in your quest.
Fingon: [glances at Maedhros, then at Thorondor] Can you carry me so high?
Thorondor: The heights of these cliffs hold no challenge for me. But I am no platform for you to stand on while you work the tangle of this prison.
Fingon: Just carry me thither, Lord of Eagles. I will find stone to stand on.

[Fingon climbs on Thorondor’s back and sits unsteadily as Thorondor flies off the cliff. Thorondor drops sharply, then rises, flapping hard. He climbs above the cliff. Cut to Maedhros, watching in amazement. Cut to Fingon, clinging to Thorondor’s back, hair whipping in the wind.]
Thorondor: Be ready, Elf Prince!
Fingon: [deep breath] I am ready!
[Thorondor dives close to the cliff. Fingon throws himself off Thorondor’s back, catches the rock ledge with his fingertips, and pulls himself up.]
Maedhros: Are you mad?
Fingon: [grasps cuff, pulls] Surely…it is a family trait.
Maedhros: You think I have not tried that?
Fingon: Maybe together –
Maedhros: We have no time for that! [glances down. Camera shift down the cliff. Orcs are gathering, pointing up at the Elves, growling and shouting. Shift back to Fingon, who pulls furiously at Maedhros’ arm. Sounds of running Orcs come from above. Fingon glances up. Orc spears appear at the top of the cliff. Fingon pulls axe, strikes cuff twice. The axe dents cuff but doesn’t break it. Ropes fall from top of cliff.]
Maedhros: End it now!
Fingon: Not so quick! [Focus on Fingon, who glances frantically around. Fingon draws his knife and saws at one leather strap on his pack. The strap breaks and the pack swings wildly off his shoulder. Fingon catches the pack strap and cuts it free. The pack falls. Fingon wraps the strap around Maedhros’ right arm above the elbow and twists it, using the hilt of the knife for leverage.]
Fingon: [untranslated Elvish…swings axe at Maedhros’ wrist. One strike severs Maedhros’ hand. Fingon grabs Maedhros and jumps off the ledge as Orcs slide down ropes. Thorondor swoops down below them so they land squarely on his back. Thorondor flies away as Orcs shout and throw spears.]

Camera shift to mountains. Stars shine in the dark sky. Maedhros leans against Fingon, his severed arm against his chest. Camera focus on wound. Blood trickles from the stump. Maedhros moans in pain.

Fingon: Sleep, cousin.
Maedhros: [very weak] I want to see the stars. So long . . . in . . . darkness . . . [faints.]

* * *

[Camera shift to Lake Mithrim near Fingolfin’s camp. Elves rush out, pointing, as Thorondor circles and lands in a clear patch of ground. Thorondor is surrounded by Elves, then flaps his wings and rises. Camera follows Thorondor into the sky. Manwë’s face appears in the clouds as Thorondor flies past. Camera fade.]

* * * * * * *

Cut to deep in the bowels of Angband, we are high above an extremely large room carved from solid rock.... the ceiling is cantilevered and crisscrossed with support beams .... it is nearly 200 feet from the roof to the floor and the room is nearly 500 feet across, as big as a modern stadium. In the midst of the room is a large pool with a twenty foot high wall around it. the pool takes up at least 2/3 of the room. At one end of the room is an arched platform that extends some thirty feet out over the pool and some fifty feet above it. it is carved from solid rock.... large, oversized steps rise from the floor to the platform.

The waters churn and boil and roil and froths. They steam and cast off glows of iridescent colours - purples, oranges, emeralds, golds, silvers, and colours no longer on our spectrum. Some of the action produces spurts which leap and frolic over 100 feet high. There are creatures in the pool... or better yet ... the beginnings of creatures.... life which is not quite alive but still in its formative stage... creatures thrashing and moving without purpose or direction.... creatures without mind or beyond any control...... creatures twisted and deformed and perverted beyond all measure or comprehension.

On the edge of the platform, balanced out over the violence of the pool is Morgoth. At times he has both arms extended and he chants and shouts, screams and orders, and at times he begs and pleads. The Master of the World reaches down and picks up some fragmented rock and rubs it between his hands and a soft glow begins to emanate forth. He raises one hand to his cheek and a long nail drags an opening into his skin from which a thick purplish liquid bubbles forth. He places some of his blood upon a forefinger and mixes it into the crushed rock. The light grows and plays about his body. He holds it aloft in one hand extended over the pool which seems to agitate the waters even more causing spurts and geysers to erupt around him. His other hand, as if by sheer powers of conjuring, produces a drawstring pouch made of some kind of skin, which he empties by throwing the contents into the air in front of him. As he does so his other hand comes down and there is an intermingling of the powders and the bright light producing a brilliant golden colour which surrounds him like a full body halo. The entire cavern fills with light and the waters of the pool are now leaping and cavorting all around bubbling and frothing and churning with activity. Twisted tentacles emerge from the frothing waters and caress the rocky platform on which Morgoth is perched. Around the pool fragments of other creatures are seen attempting to rise above the waters if only for a second or two. And then Morgoth throws both his hands outward and the source of the light flies out some fifty feet and enters the pool causing all the waters to momentarily turn golden. We hear wild music that accelerates and crescendos slowly to a furious climax, with Morgoth conducting the waters like a mad symphony waving his arms and gesturing wildly with such force that we even see crumbling sand from the platforms foundation ...

He pauses and waits. The lights begin to lessen, then dim altogether. The spurts and geysers begin to diminish in strength and power... the churning and frothing slows to a stop and the waters are dark and calm. A slight sigh erupts from the lips of Morgoth.

A figure about half the size of Morgoth slowly climbs the large steps with some effort and walks across the platform stopping a dozen feet behind Morgoth. It is Sauron and his head is bowed and his demeanour is tentative and measured.

Morgoth: I sense that you have bad news for me.
Sauron: Yes My Lord and Master. [he hesitates and his fear is palpable.]
Morgoth: Out with it then ...... what do you have for me?
Sauron: The Elven prince who was our prisoner has escaped with the aid of others. The orcs tried to catch them but it appears that they had help from a higher power which flew them to safety.
Morgoth: They flew? How?
Sauron: A large bird seems to have taken them from the mountain face to safety far from our grasp.

No reaction from Morgoth.... no reply from Morgoth.....he simply reaches into his clothing and pulls out another pouch of powder and throws a handful into the pool. A full minute of silence goes by very slowly.

Morgoth: So it would be futile to send out more orcs to search for them?
Sauron: I fear so my Lord. There is no chance of finding them given the means of their escape. In mere moments they were leagues from our sight.
Without turning around,
Morgoth: [whispers] Bring me all the orcs who were responsible for this. Strip them of clothing and weapons and bring them here at once! [Morgoth takes a handful of powders and reconsiders their use... he carefully places them back in the pouch and puts it back into his robes.]
Morgoth: Go now - I desire them here as fast as you can bring them.
Sauron: Yes my Lord. [As Sauron leaves, Morgoth clenches his left fist and strokes his chin with his right hand. He looks out over the violence of the pool....]
Morgoth: Be patient my children..... you will soon have a new treat. [Fade.]

* * * * * * *

Scene opens in the forest of Neldoreth, a great beech-wood. The only sounds we hear are of bird-song and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. We catch a glimpse of the many forest creatures in the undergrowth – voles, shrews, squirrels, foxes, rabbits, deer, and birds, etc as the camera moves slowly though the trees. Suddenly we hear clear laughter like the sound of a tinkling brook but we cannot locate the source. The laughter is interspersed with a creaking, leathery sound, like the branches of a tree rubbing in the wind, and indeed we see a large tree that seems to be swaying, almost bending in the wind…except that there is no discernible breeze in the thick forest. Then the sound changes to a hollow, booming sound, like a low-pitched woodwind instrument, with a hum or quiver that seems to come out of the boles of the tree. Eventually we realize that we are hearing speech of a sort, and as the camera circle around the tree we realize that it is not a tree, but an Ent! It is Treebard, and he is talking with Lúthien, the Elf-princess of Menegroth. She is perched on one of his limbs, listening to one of his long poems or songs.

We hear in the distance another woman’s voice calling for Lúthien, echoed by a man’s deeper voice…Lúthien frowns, sulkily, thinking to hide, then as Treebeard raises a leafy eyebrow at her she thinks better of it and calls out in reply:

Lúthien: Here, Ada, Naneth! [scrambles down from Treebeard’s branches as he lowers them for her] Come and hear! Treebeard has tidings for you from west of the Ered Wethrin!

Treebeard: [bows low as Thingol and his Queen, Melian, enter the glade] Hoom! Well met, Greymantle, Lord among the First-born…
Thingol : [bows in return, greets Treebeard warmly] My friend…it has been too long since you last graced these woods. I trust nature has looked after its own in your absence!
Treebeard: Hrum! The gardens of the Entwives keep me busy after a fashion, root and twig! And I have lingered long in the highlands of Dorthonion, wandered in the willow-valley of Nan-tasarion, and most recently enjoyed the music of the seven rivers in the elm-woods of Ossiriand. And of course we Ents gather news wherever we go…I trust you have heard of the arrival of many of your kin from the West?
Thingol: Indeed, I have sent some of my people to greet these long-lost Noldor kin, and in the meantime our scouts arrived just days ago with news of their victory against the Dark Power…apart from the death of Finwë’s eldest son, the news has only been good, so far…

Treebeard: Hrm!, so it seems, though we must not be too hasty to celebrate…A cornered animal can be more dangerous than a free one…
Melian: Wisely spoken, Ancient One… walk with us a while?
Treebeard: [inclines head] Gracious Lady, it is good to rest my weary eyes on your beauty again – and I see your lovely daughter has inherited her mother’s charm as well as her looks! [extends a leafy branch and tickles Lúthien under the chin. Lúthien giggles] I will indeed enjoy a stroll with you… [they move off together through the forest back towards the River Esgalduin,] …And have you also heard of the second host of Noldor who appeared in the land of Mithrim the very hour that the Sun rose upon our world?
Thingol: [pauses, taken aback] What tidings are these?
Treebeard: Many more princes come out of the West: the second son of Finwë and his people, and the children of Finwë’s third son…though he did not appear to be among their number. Nor Finwë himself…
Melian: We have wondered at that…but there has been no news from Aman – I have been unable to perceive my brethren in my mind ever since the Dark Lord returned to this Land.

Treebeard: [sighs heavily] It pains me to say it, but I fear all is not well in the Blessed Realm…nor between these newcomers. Those who have arrived latterly have come in might equal to the first, but their people, though greater in number, appear to have suffered much hardship on their journey, and they have encamped a good distance from their kin.
Thingol: You think there is strife between them?
Treebeard: I cannot say for certain, but there are many Elf princes looking for realms to make their own …not to mention a tall, and beautiful, golden-haired princess. Word has it that she is endowed with great wisdom and insight, though proud and wilful with it… [they reach the bridge over the river, leading to the entrance to Menegroth.] Sadly I must bid my Lord and Lady farewell; my Fimbrethil will be needing my help with the corn harvest soon enough…but I shall return to Taur-na-neldor when Autumn comes again!
Thingol: Fare thee well, Eldest!
Melian: namárië! [Lúthien hugs Treebeard, and they watch him stride off through the forest. Lúthien skips on ahead across the bridge. ]
Thingol: [glances at Melian] I cannot say that I welcome this news with a full heart…Beleriand already has a Lord…
Melian: My Love, in any case, you should not open this kingdom, nor remove its girdle of enchantment. Trust not that the restraint of Morgoth will endure.
Thingol: Yet the princes of the Noldor are close kin, especially my brother Olwë’s grandchildren.
Melian: Then let only those of Finarfin’s house pass within the confines of Doriath… The others should find room enough to settle in lands not inhabited by our people. Besides, this golden-haired niece of ours intrigues me, and it would please me greatly to make her acquaintance.
Thingol: [smiles fondly at his wife] As you wish! [they walk arm in arm across the bridge. Cut.]

* * * * * * *
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
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Post by Elentári »


Scene opens in Fingolfin’s tent when Maedhros has been ministered to by the healers. He is lying propped up slightly on a pallet. Fingon pokes head through tent flap.
Fingon: [smiles] I thought you were sleeping…
Maedhros: [strained whisper] I do not think that there will be sleep for me this night. Every time my heart beats a hammer falls upon some hurt. [groans] But I want to thank you… [Fingon enters and sits beside Maedhros]
Fingon: [shakes head] You would have done the same for me, Maedhros. There are no debts between friends. There was no harm done. [Turgon enters tent, grim-faced. Maedhros looks up at him but cannot hold his gaze]
Maedhros: [bitterly] There is no measure to the harm I have done…
Fingon: And yet it could not come between us. [takes Maedhros’s left hand in his and clasps it gently] Our friendship was made in Aman, and the Valar were witness to it. Surely misfortune cannot harm that bond. [Maedhros nods drowsily]
Turgon: [savagely] Do not lie to him! Helcaraxë's cold is not so easily forgotten, Fingon. You are blind and a fool if you cannot see how he betrayed us!"
Fingon: [stands, his face stony and his eyes narrowed] Did he lead the Noldor, Turgon? Was he a greater King already than his father? Did he find himself with more power than Fëanor? I think not! [speaks to Maedhros, voice grows quiet] This crime does not belong to you, alone…

Turgon: [moves over to the bed] If I did not know what a feat it would be for you to live through this night, I would strike you, Maedhros! [laughs harshly] My anger is fuelled by months of wandering through the ice, watching the women and children die and the men wither with hunger and sorrow. I would curse your family if your father had not done so already.
Maedhros: [vehemently] Strike me, then, Fingon! Slay me, shun me, but speak not an ill word of my father. His folly has already brought him to death, but my evils still live with me!

Turgon: [laughs again, almost cruelly] You think you might speak of death? You have not seen death! I have watched my wife drown, torn from my grasp…I have fostered children whose mothers starved, only to watch their hearts freeze within them! And then we could do no more than leave them on the ground to mark our trail. That, son of Fëanor, is death! You are the blind fool if you do not see that these are days when kin may slay kin and be called heroes. No, Maedhros, I can see. [holds out his hands, showing Maedhros the deep, raw cracks in his skin that linger from the merciless passage through Helcaraxë] I can see this betrayal plainly, and I can feel it as well as you can, though I feel the injury...and you the guilt.

Fingon: [firmly] And now, he has suffered more than us, and Eru knows that his heart should bear no guilty burden…
Maedhros: [slumps back against the pallet, tears flowing swiftly down his cheeks] Oh, Fingon, I have paid. I have paid! [His shoulders shake as he cries] Yet I can never pay enough. You should have left me, Fingon. Not even Morgoth's damnation could punish this traitor! This is not enough for dead women and children…
Fingon: [cradles Maedhros in his arms, whispers soothingly] Forget, then, Maedhros. And let our feuds be healed before they are put beyond repair by shame and silence.
Turgon: [sighs heavily; to Maedhros] Forgive me, cousin. I should not have spoken thus. Not now...not here…I will send word of your rescue to your brothers… [nods at Fingon, and exits tent. Fade.]

* * *

Cut to inside Fingolfin’s tent. Maedhros lays on Fingolfin’s bed, soaked with sweat and moaning fitfully. The tent is semi-dark, as if it’s day but the doors are closed. Camera focus on Maedhros’ face. Shift edge. Fade

Fade in to dream sequence. The shots are somewhat fuzzy but clear enough at centre. We see the forests of Valinor. Celegorm and Caranthir ride after a stag, laughing and saying something although we cannot hear what they say.
Cut to Kinslaying: Teleri screaming and dying as they try to defend the ships.
Cut to a ball game, with Fingon and Maglor sweating and laughing as Turgon makes a goal.
Cut to Ships burning, Fëanor sneering.
Cut to Nerdanel laying a platter of glistening rolls on a full table.
Cut to Orcs laughing as they bind Maedhros.
Cut to Sauron slapping Maedhros.
Cut to Female Orcs tearing his clothing off.
Cut to Fëanor sneering down at Maedhros:

Fëanor: [scornfully] You are weak! Pathetic! Too clumsy to create beauty! Too incompetent to defend your brothers or avenge what was done to us! It is your fault that your grandfather lies dead now! You are no son of mine! No better than than Morgoth’s pathetic catamite!
Cut to black figure of Mandos standing in shadows, head bowed: slowly he raises his face and extends an arm, pointing straight at camera:
Mandos: You never more shall come back to this place of rest; forever now the Dispossessed you and your heirs shall be…welcome no more beyond the Sea… the curse of your Oath unbroken; the sons of Fëanor shall wander as leaves before the wind…
[Camera pan out. Cut to Tent, focus on Maedhros moaning in his sleep. Camera Fade.]


[Fade in to Angband workroom. Sauron stands over a dark stone basin of water. He smiles and leans over the basin. Camera shift to basin. Maedhros’ face is framed in the water. Cut.]

We see Maedhros awaken from his nightmares, heavilly sweating and nearly scared to death. He sees the flap of his tent open and a tall hooded figure stands there then slowly approaches. The figure pulls back his hood and we see Sauron smiling broadly:
"We need your talents again, elf".
And from behind him appear several female orcs like dogs in heat and they begin to paw and lick and envelop him as he screams while Sauron stands on smiling broadly…

And then Maedhros really awakens.

* * *

Cut to Fingolfin’s tent, later. Maedhros sits on the edge of the bed, looking pale and weak but determined, he is wearing a loose shirt. He reaches for his trousers, pulls them on awkwardly using his remaining hand and bound wrist. He stands and tries to tie the waistband, but the strap slips out of his fingers and his trousers slide down. He collapses on the bed, shoulders shaking, muffling sobs with his injured arm. Fade.

* * *

We see a brief montage of clips showing Maedhros’ progress. Perhaps one of him spilling food down his front, working on a Pell with a training sword, then sparring with one of his brothers, becoming frustrated. Changes in leaves and shadows could show passing time, as he gets more skilled, defter with his off hand, and develops the ruthlessness he'd need to survive as an off-handed fighter.

* * *

Camera fades into scene of everyday activity back in the Fëanorian camp. Cut to Maedhros tent where we see Maedhros healed in body, if not in spirit, having come to terms with the loss of his right-hand. Dressed in the best clothes he has, he has laid out some light, freshly polished armour on the bed, and is struggling to do up the straps on the breastplate. Maglor enters the tent, takes in the scene at a glance and hesitates,
Maedhros: Well…do not stand there gawping…give me a hand! [grins at Maglor’s expression] I made haste to get that jest in before you!
Maglor: [smiles back] I am glad that you are in better spirits… [does up the straps nimbly] You look well today, Maedhros, your strength is returning swiftly. But what need have you to be dressed-up like this? [gestures towards the armour.]
Maedhros: There is a matter between Fingolfin and myself to be settled. Something which is long overdue, and I would meet him properly attired as befits my station as King of the Noldor.
Maglor: What matter? What more needs to be said between you? We have begged forgiveness of Fingolfin for our shameful complicity in Father’s acts of betrayal; Fingon has our eternal gratitude for his selfless and courageous act of rescue, which indeed has won him great renown and praise from all the Noldor!
Maedhros: [calmly] What more? There is still one more wrong that needs to be righted: all these months I have had too much time to both heal in body and in mind. We must again be one people, undivided by past events no matter how serious or legitimate. If it were not for Fingon, and the bond of our childhood friendship, I would still be hanging upon that cursed slope! But the rest of the House of Fingolfin have no love for us after our betrayal at Losgar – the agony of those that endured the crossing of the Ice is beyond imagination for most of our people…though now I have had but a little taste of it.

Maglor: [chagrined] And what more would you do to assuage this hatred? Beg for forgiveness on your knees? I have already performed that pleasantry on your behalf…
Maedhros: And willingly would I repeat your penance a hundred times over… [walks away to a chest the other side of the bed, opens it and lifts out Fëanor’s sword in its scabbard. He pulls the sword out a little, admiring the inlaid hilt, and reading the inscription on the blade. Then he slides it back into the scabbard, and turns to face Maglor again.] …but there is something else that has been on my mind ever since I was brought back from the brink of death... [camera close-up of Maglor ‘s questioning face. Fade.]

* * *

Fade into scene of assembled Noldor in Fingolfin’s camp. Camera pans crowd so that we see Fingon, Turgon and Aredhel standing beside their father, who is seated on a wooden chair, with Finrod, Galadriel, Aegnor and Angrod also in attendance. Everyone is dressed in the best clothes they can find, displaying the symbols of their position. Camera swings round to show the Sons of Fëanor approaching in their finery also. They form a semicircle as they stop in front of Fingolfin, who rises to greet them. Maedhros steps forward to meet Fingolfin as an equal. They both salute each other in the Elven manner of greeting, then Fingolfin sits down, indicating Maedhros should do likewise, in an empty chair that is brought forward. Maedhros refuses, and remains standing in front of Fingolfin...

Fingolfin: As you wish. [coolly] So, my Lord Maedhros, pray tell us why you have called for this assembly?
Maedhros: My Lord, I come before you this day as head of the House of Fëanor, and leader of my people. Whilst I wish to remain in friendship with your house, I fear there are those amongst both our peoples who will continue to feud amongst kin. Therefore I propose that my people move out of Mithrim to the lands around the Hill of Himring. There we can take up the responsibility for defending those lands most in danger of attack by Morgoth… [hesitates]
Fingolfin: [looks surprised, but relieved] If you are so resolved, then I will not gainsay the idea. My dearest wish is for the rift between our Houses to be healed…
Maedhros: [nods] …and to that effect, as redress for your aggrievements, I offer a symbol of our sincerity and fealty: [draws Fëanor’s sword then drops to his knees, proffering the sword to Fingolfin] I willingly waive my claim, and that of the House of Fëanor, to kingship over all the Noldor!
[crowd gasps in surprise. Camera focuses on Maedhros brothers’ reactions. This appears to be a surprise to most of them and not all look pleased, especially Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin.]
Maedhros: Even if there lay no grievance between us, Lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest of the house of Finwë, and not the least wise! [Fingolfin glances at his sons, nieces and nephews, who are just as stunned as the Fëanorians. Turgon meets his father’s eyes and replies with an imperceptible nod.]

Fingolfin: If my people are in agreement, then I accept your offer, and your repentance. Let the Noldor in exile be united once more in friendship as well as blood!
[Fingolfin stands, and steps forward, taking the sword from Maedhros’ outstretched arms. He holds it high above his head to show the crowd, who roar their approval. He offers Maedhros his hand; Maedhros takes it, and rises. They embrace. Some of the cousins come forward as well, and join in the renewal of friendship. Others hang back…. Fade.]

* * * * * * *

Fade into long-distance shot of Aragorn, Eldarion and company riding along a winding, dusty path on the gentle slopes of Emyn Arnen. To either side of the path heathers, ferns and moss cover the ground. Camera pans over the rolling countryside and we see groves of poplar, cedar, cypress, juniper, myrtle and olive trees. Camera closes in on the group:
Aragorn: …and just as Mandos foretold, the House of Fëanor were called the Dispossessed, because the kingship passed from it, and because of the loss of the Silmarils.
Eldarion: But what happened to the Silmarils…did Morgoth keep them for ever?
Aragorn: Morgoth lost possession of them eventually…
Eldarion: [punches the air excitedly] Yes! I knew that he would…the evil enemy will always suffer defeat in the end!
Aragorn: [smiles at Eldarion] The sons of Fëanor and his half-brothers built and ruled vast kingdoms in Middle-earth. Maedhros and his brothers were still bound by the unbreakable Oath to recover the Silmarils. That determined events in Middle-earth throughout the First Age, and led to the ruin of all of the sons…but that is another story for another day!
Gimli: Indeed, the old histories are full of such tales of bravery and misfortune. Yet, despite the great tragedies that affected Fëanor and his family, his skills as a craftsman remain legendary, even among us Dwarves: the Doors of Durin that guarded the great Dwarven kingdom of Khazâd-dûm were inscribed by Fëanor’s grandson, and bore the emblem of the House of Fëanor - a single star with many rays –
Farin: [proudly] -as well as the hammer and anvil of Durin…
Eldarion: …until the Watcher in the Water brought down the cliffs of the Silvertine upon them – I know because Ada told me so! [sticks tongue out at Farin, playfully]
Gimli: Hrrmph! [folds his arms in a sulky pose] I did not wish to be reminded of that!
Aragorn: [reigns in] Look! We are almost there… [Points to something in the distance and Eldarion and Farin stand in the saddle, straining to see.]

Nestled in the crown of the hill ahead is the estate of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. It is reminiscent of a Tuscan villa, with terracotta tiled roof and cream walls. Terraced gardens open out onto the natural countryside through loggias, the flower beds full of anemones, celandines, irises, lilies, and wild roses. Herbs such as marjoram, parsley, sage, and thyme grow in well-tended beds. Shaped Bay trees stand in rows of pots; Marble statues peer out from sculptured hedges, and pebble mosaic walks lead the eye to cooling fountains.

As the party reaches the entrance gates, and young man of about 20 approaches, dressed in the uniform of squire to the Steward. He bows formally, first to Elessar and Gimli, and then to Eldarion; as he straightens he slips a wink at the young prince…

Bergil: Welcome, My Lords, to Emyn Arnen, the “Hills beside the Water!"
Eldarion: Bergil! [slips out of the saddle agilely and flings his arms around the young man’s waist.] It is so good to see you again…you are so tall – have you stopped growing at last?
Bergil: [laughing] I think so, young master, [sizing Eldarion up] but it looks as though you are starting to catch me. [turns to Aragorn] My Lord, I trust you have had a good journey?
Aragorn: Yes, indeed, Bergil. Your Father has done an excellent job of maintaining the eastern marches and keeping the route clear of outlaws. [glances round admiringly] And I see that all is prospering in my Steward’s household, too!
Bergil: The Lady Éowyn is a healer and lover of all growing things! She has nurtured Ithilien's gardens and worked to restore this once-rich land to its former beauty.
Aragorn: Your Lady has worked wonders! Kindly inform Lord Faramir that we have arrived, and that his old friend Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, and his nephew, Farin, have decided to pay him a visit also, before travelling northwards to Legolas and his people.
Bergil: At once, My Lord, and I will send the grooms to see to your horses. [bows and hurries off. The rest of the party dismount as the grooms soon come running, Gimli with a sigh of relief. Farin wanders over to Eldarion who has found a vantage point overlooking the Anduin, winding away below them..]

Eldarion: Look, Farin! you can see Minas Tirith away across the river…it looks so close from here.
Farin: Truly this is a land of beauty and peacefulness such as I have only dreamed of.
Eldarion: [dreamily] A land of enchantment! I can see why Father said Gondor never fully gave up on Ithilien, even in its darkest days. I would never want to give this up if it were my home…Ow! what was that-? [turns to see a boy a couple of years younger than himself, cut knees and grubby face, brandishing a wooden sword in his face.]
Boy: Who are you? And what are you doing on the Prince’s land? Answer me, or you will feel the sharpness of my sword! [starts guiltily as a voice speaks sternly behind him ]
Éowyn: Elboron! Put that sword away…that is no way to greet our guests! [to Eldarion and Farin] I apologize on behalf of my son for his welcome! It seems, young Prince, that you have fallen under the spell of this land just as I did when I first set eyes on it! [stoops to give Eldarion a kiss; he squirms a little, and blushes.]
Faramir: [smiling] Your words echo what our people said in ages past: "This is our home. We will not give it up, except that we must give up our lives." [gives Eldarion a bear hug.]
Aragorn: True spoken, my Steward. Gondor never really lost Ithilien because it lived on in the hearts of its people. Your father shrewdly recruited the Rangers from men whose ancestors had once lived here. They held an emotional investment in this land, and through them Gondor maintained its devotion. It was impossible for Sauron to leave a lasting mark on this land. Isildur would have been proud… [fade as group walks back towards the house.]

There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
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