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[prophesiedone]

[Against all odds, Anakin is trying to keep himself calm and collected. He has had plenty to upset and anger him lately and, really, that isn't good for anyone. His power can damage a lot of things; he could even bring down buildings. So instead of letting his abilities run wild, he is meditating, his eyes closed tightly, his legs crossed and his mouth set in a stubborn line.]

...this never works.

[His eyes open, as blue as the sky, and he lets out a harsh breath.]

Anyone know any techniques? [Behind him, a metal pole begins to warp. He glances back and stretches out a hand, trying to undo the damage.] I guess I'm going to have to sleep outside tonight.

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[prophesiedone]

That's normal. [It sucks and there is little that can be done about that feeling. He's tired of feeling it himself.]

Two. [He rests his hands on his knees as he shifts uncomfortably.] My mother and my wife.

[Both condemned him of being a monster. He had died - after luring the ghosts away from the house. How could he have lifted a hand against them?]

He understands me. He has seen me at my worst and...he hasn't run or made me feel...inferior. [For that alone, he adores Maedhros.] I wish I could protect him.

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[so_dark_a_road]

[ Guilt sucks! And there's not a thing to be done about it. ]

I am very sorry. [ The very last people Anakin needed to be haunted by, here in Hadriel. And indeed, how could he kill them? Better to die oneself. ]

I can well believe that Maedhros would not judge you and would continue to respect you even though he knows your worst side. [ Small, rueful laugh. ] Our family, we know.

Of course you wish that. We all wish that for those we love. By the way, I finished your sword.

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[prophesiedone]

[Especially not when you are tumbling into fiery lava via a vicious cycle of accursedly poor decisions!]

I haven't asked him much about your family. I don't think it would be easy for him to talk about. [But Curufin might be different...?] What went so wrong? How did he lose his hand?

[He straightens suddenly.] You have? Can I pick it up?

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[so_dark_a_road]

[ Especially not then! ]

It's a long story. And a rather terrible one, especially Maedhros' part of the story. You probably know a little of it. We came from Aman to Middle-earth in pursuit of the Vala Melkor, the god of fire and darkness. He had stolen the Silmarils, three holy jewels that contained the original Light of the universe. Our father had crafted them, and his heart was bound to them. Melkor murdered our grandfather to get them, and then he fled across the strait to Middle-earth. Our father swore a binding oath -- and in our universe, such an oath is horrifically binding. It has a life of its own, and it hounds the oath-taker forever after. The Oath bound us to pursue Melkor, whom our father renamed Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, to the ends of the earth to exact revenge and to regain the jewels. We seven brothers swore as well, and that was our ruin.

We fought four wars and innumerable skirmishes against the Dark Vala. The first one was a stand-off. Morgoth offered to treat with us, but he was a liar. Maedhros went to the meeting point ostensibly to negotiate, though he didn't intend to do so anymore than Morgoth did. But Morgoth brought more troops than Maedhros did, and he took Maedhros captive.

Maedhros was imprisoned in Angband, Morgoth's Orc-and-Balrog-infested underground fortress, and Morgoth sent a message to us, saying that if we agreed to leave Middle-earth or to make the trek to the far south of that continent and never come back to the north to contest Morgoth's claim to it, that he would release our brother. We debated the issue amongst ourselves.

[ He sighs, and it is a deep and troubled sigh. He lifts a hand and runs it through his thick, dark hair, a sad, agitated gesture. ] I knew Morgoth wouldn't let Maedhros go, no matter what we agreed to. I had met that sonofabitch in Aman when he came around to our father's forge and tried to persuade him to become an ally. I didn't speak to him on that occasion, I left that to our father. Melkor was a snake, and anybody with half an eye could see that. And so I knew there was no getting Maedhros back. I said to the others that we should do one of two things: (1) Give our brother up for dead, and get on with preparing for the next war. (2) Assault Angband suddenly and with all the force we could muster, and either rescue Maedhros or die ourselves, the six of us.

I would have preferred choice number two. But that is not what happened.

It was a dreadful situation. Maglor was stuck with the deciding vote, since our father was dead by that time, and Maglor was the eldest brother after Maedhros, and thus the acting head of the family. He had to vote for leaving Maedhros where he was, rather than risk the rest of us getting killed and thereby having no chance at all of ever fulfilling the Oath. Mind you, he did not think the Oath was more important than our brother's life. But, as I said, the Oath was not just a pledge, it was an absolute curse, a curse of hatred, and it was already pursuing us in ways we could not even fathom at the time. We could feel it hovering over us like a a vast bird of prey, or something a lot worse, an unnamable horror. Our father had sworn not only in the name of Manwe and Varda, the two most powerful of the pantheon of gods, but also by the name of Eru, the Creator. And worst of all, he called the Everlasting Darkness down upon us all if we failed to fulfill the Oath. And we swore by that. And Maglor, who should have been surnamed The Protector, could not endanger his brothers' immortal spirits in such a terrible fashion, let alone his five remaining brothers' bodies. And we all voted with him, not wishing him to bear the burden of this terrible decision alone.

And so we abandoned Maedhros to his fate.

Morgoth tortured him. And finally he hung him by the wrist from a cliff on the Thangorodrim, the mountain peaks under which his fortress was dug. It was our cousin Fingon who finally rescued him, slipped through the smokes and fogs that Morgoth sent from his mountains to intimidate us and climbed up to where Maedhros was. But he couldn't get him out of the steel band that encircled the wrist. And so he cut the hand off at the wrist, rather than slay him as Maedhros begged him to do.

[ Bitterly. ] I could have done it, if I had been there. I could have sawed the band apart, and most likely saved the hand or at least damaged it less. I should have been there. But I was not there. I was two hundred miles away, grieving uselessly for my brother instead of risking my life for him.

Fingon brought him back. Maedhros, needless to say, was in extremely bad shape. It took him a long time to recover physically. Emotionally, he was never the same. He learned to wield a sword left-handed, and he stepped up to become the leader he knew he had to be, and he was twice as fierce in battle as he had been before. But his heart and soul were damaged and, I believe, never fully healed.

That's just the beginning of the story. But you asked how he came to lose his hand.

I like it that you want to protect him. Your light saber is certainly an amazing weapon, but it can't hurt to have a steel one, too. Yes, you can come and get it. You can come tomorrow, or we can go to the forge shack and get it now. Whatever you prefer.

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[prophesiedone]

[He is a silent, attentive listener, the color leaving his face at what Maedhros had endured; what they had all endured. The story is similar in some ways to his own. That is perhaps why he doesn't offer Curufin his condolences. This is a curse they have called down on themselves. Oh he empathizes - so terribly much - but they can't remain there; they can't remain weak.

So what if they're cursed? They can make it better.]

I'd like to hear the rest of the story if you're up to sharing. [Anakin watches Curufin for a long moment, deciding that a correction should be made.] The lightsaber is a tool; I am the weapon.

[Without the saber, he can hold his own against and best just about anyone. His lightsaber techniques add to his might and he can mirror other dueling styles to throw an opponent off. But, really, truthfully, his power comes from within - like an explosion leveling all in its path. Someone could try to drop a ship on him and he would be able to stop it.]

How do Elves duel? [He can add that to his repertoire and maybe shift the motions to suit his lightsaber.]

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[so_dark_a_road]

[ Curufin appreciates the attentiveness. Not just on Maedhros' account, but on his own as well. He doesn't often tell the tale of Maedhros' capture and escape, largely for shame at his own lack of initiative at the time. But he feels comfortable with Anakin, whose full story he does not know, but he knows enough of it to recognize a kindred spirit. ]

I'll tell the rest, if you want to hear it. I'm up to it.

[ A bit of a laugh. ] Yes, I see that it is you who are the weapon. Your people and mine apparently think alike in that respect. The power comes from the spirit of the sword-wielder, and much of that is drawn from the universe around the wielder. The tool can be finely made, and it can contain a great deal of energy, but it is only a tool.

As for how we dual? There's a technique, of course. Our swords are forged to be as unbreakable as possible, and as sharp as razors, but they are lighter than you might think. We don't like heavy swords, because we want to be able to make swordplay a dance -- a dance of death -- inasmuch as the sword is an extension of the warrior's body and should respond to the movement of that body. A sword blow is like a whiplash, the blade slashing with incredible speed at the end of the move. It is the speed that makes the blade deadly, not its weight. The speed confers cutting power. It's not actually the strength of the warrior's arm that does that. And so our technique emphasizes the circle or semicircle of the strike, the windup to the actual strike, the whole movement of the body, which generates the velocity.