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Chapters 7 and 9 are very long, so I have split them into six posts and five posts respectively. I have numbered these posts so you can easily jump back to where you left off.
Note: There are some descriptions of serious injuries and of death in battle in Chapters 3, 9 and 10 (especially 10). It’s more for realism than shock value, but people have different tolerances for reading about gruesome things, so I thought it best to give advance warning.
1.
The Green Gem
Curufinwë Atarinkë stares up at the towering figure in the long dark maroon tunic, with its dark mane of hair, coppery skin and steely shimmering eyes. A heavy unseen aura crackles around the figure, reminiscent of the bone-dry blast of a furnace, if the furnace were somehow both pleasantly warm and an unabating force of nature at the same time. Curufinwë Fëanároplaces a hand on the boy's head and addresses the tower of strength and skill personally, as one would a friend. "This is my fifth son, Curufin, who has inherited both my name, and my passion for crafting things of skill and beauty. As I myself have learned many things from you and from your student Mahtan, I thank you for welcoming us to your halls so that my son may do the same."
It is Curufin's first time visiting the halls of the ValaAulë. Apparently, his parents and elder brothers had all journeyed here together many times in the past, before he was born. But this time, his first time, his father wanted to take him there alone. Curufin had felt proud, hearing of this at home. Now, he is simply intimidated. Fëanor ruffles his hair a little. Curufin knows he has to introduce himself, and he wants to speak as clearly and boldly as his father had. He wishes Celegorm were here. Celegorm would always speak up first, without fail, and Curufin could then bounce off him, taking inspiration from him and running with it. Not taking his eyes from Aulë's thoughtful, glimmering gaze, Curufin smiles, a shaky and faint effort from one normally so sure of himself. "I am glad to be here," he begins, his voice very small in the silence. "I want to learn how to make gems that shine in the light!" His inner thoughts come to his mouth far more readily than he expects, all subtlety cast aside.
Curufin looks up at his father a little nervously, but Fëanor only smiles down at him, and Curufin's heart is strengthened. Curufin had seen the many gems invented and shaped by Fëanor that reflected even a dim light back many times over, with glorious hues that outshone even Aulë's precious stones of the earth. And there was also something about them that reminded him of his father, as if they reflected him too. How Curufin wishes he could make something like that.
The soft mingled gleam of the Trees shines through the windows of the halls, and Curufin walks with Fëanor back to their chambers. He is holding a silver ring, set with a cold green gemstone. He turns it over in his fingers, examining the finely and intricately wrought metal, that he shaped himself under the patient guidance of Aulë. Curufin had expected the Vala's voice to boom like the horn of Oromë, but Aulë's words always fell softly and precisely, like the sand that falls through an hourglass. And once his mind was on his craft, Curufin's hands were steady. He knew this would be his best work yet, and the technical advice he received from Aulë practically engraved itself into his mind.
A beam of pale light falls onto the gemstone and it glitters, scattering the vibrant green of Tree-lit leaves and the deep cold green of stained glass onto Curufin's hands. His father had shown him how to create this gem. It was not cut from stone; it was a kind of glass, grown like a crystal with careful guidance around smaller pieces of the same material, which were arranged so that light would reflect between them and outwards from them in a pattern unique to that gem. Fëanor's clear gem had come out perfectly rounded and smooth, but Curufin's green one had some rough edges he needed to polish away.
Curufin sets his ring down near the candle that sits on a low table in their room. He sits down and folds his arms on the table, still observing the gem's reflection of the light. It does exactly as it is supposed to, taking in the flickering gleam and returning it brighter than before, its green hues shifting and changing with the wavering candlelight. Curufin frowns, laying his head on his folded arms. Even up close, he cannot see it. He sighs. "It's just not there...!"
"What is 'not there'?" Fëanor's voice sounds from behind him.
"Even though I made this, and I did my best, it still doesn't look like me." Curufin raises his head and turns to his father. "When you make things, especially gemstones, I think I see them reflecting you. When I make things... well, my things don't do that. I thought maybe when I made a gem for the first time, I would be able to see just a little bit of something more in it. But even though it shines like it's meant to, it's still only the sum of its parts."
Fëanor approaches and crouches down so that he is at eye level with his son. His expression is gentle and the usual piercing edge to his bright eyes has somehow been put aside. "Curufin... When you find your inspiration, you will find that a part of yourself will end up in the work created from that inspiration. It ensues naturally, and you will know it is happening as you craft it. Do not let it worry you, my son. You are still very young, and you might not yet know what resonates with your heart and spirit."
Curufin realises he has laid his head down on his arms again without even noticing. Fëanor rises. "I think someone is very tired and needs to go to bed."
Curufin grouches. "...Maybe." But he makes no resistance as his father picks him up and carries him to the washbasin.
====
Curufin is bored. Here he is, sitting at his desk and staring at the list of things he has to create new names for, when he could be making adjustments to one of his small projects, discovering a new subject of interest in their substantial library, exploring the outdoors, exploring the indoors, tailing his parents as they work, or even pestering his brothers. Any of these, he is sure, would be more inspiring than inventing brand-new words for a hundred everyday objects that already have names. He glances at the other desk, where Celegorm appears to be playing dead, slumped face-down onto his paper. Curufin's elder brother is even worse off in that he has to create new words for a hundred abstract concepts. Not to mention that unlike his patient and dexterous younger sibling, he still struggles to write in perfectly-formed tengwar. Caranthir the Boring, of course, had already finished his lessons hours ago so he could spend the rest of the day doing... whatever it is that Caranthir does, in his preference for solitude.
But Curufin is not about to stoop so low as to do what he's told, when there are more interesting things to be done. Not immediately, at least. He will find a workaround. Maybe he could convince someone to 'help' him with his work. By the time they've realised what's going on, half the task will be finished for him already. Curufin taps his paper thoughtfully. Father would see right through him. Mother would simply remain strict; she would point out his talents, then encourage him to apply himself. Maedhros, however, could be reasoned with.
He reaches over and pats Celegorm gently on the head. "Come brother, let's go find Maedhros. I'm sure he will aid us in our toil, if we ask him nicely." Curufin's voice is mild, and his suggestion's innocence undeniable to any listener. Any listener, that is, apart from Celegorm, who understands even the soundless divulgations of the most voiceless creature.
Celegorm raises his head, squinting at Curufin for a moment. He shoves his chair back abruptly, almost overbalancing, before jumping to his feet and stretching his arms in the air. "So you're finding this as mind-numbing as I am? I thought you'd be all for this tiresome stuff, just like Father." He stamps his foot like a restless pony. "Let's go." Celegorm dashes out of the room, Curufin following at a more measured pace.
Celegorm bursts into Maedhros' room, and Curufin hears a surprised "What—" from his eldest brother, before Celegorm launches into an embittered tirade. "Maedhros... I need your help. That... that blank page is the bane of my life! I just don't understand how I'm supposed to go about it. I've barely managed to put together ten new words, and frankly they sound terrible to the ear, and it feels like I am chewing gravel when I say them, so I don't know how I'm going to make ninety more..."
Curufin trots through the door to join his brother. Maedhros is seated at his paper-strewn desk, leaning his head on his hand. His face is serious, with the slight bewildered look of those who have been suddenly pulled from deep thought. Curufin hesitatingly comes to a halt. His eldest brother glances at him. "I... haven't even written a single word." Curufin mumbles, looking embarrassed. "I might need some help also."
Celegorm takes Maedhros' hand and tries to get him to stand up. "Brother, please... I don't want to be languishing in that room all day long! If you show me how you work it out, it might help me to understand. And I'll be able to figure it out myself from there."
Curufin approaches and hugs Maedhros' other arm softly, cheek pressed against his brother's shoulder. Celegorm looks desperate. "Please..." he says again. Maedhros sighs. He squeezes Celegorm's hand briefly, then ruffles Curufin's hair. Curufin turns his face upwards with a slight smile. Then freezes, as Maedhros is looking right at him, with an expression he had not expected. "Curufin... I'm not falling for that again."
Celegorm makes an exasperated grumbling noise, sounding not unlike one of his hounds. Curufin steps back and folds his arms, mildly annoyed at the foiled attempt. Even so, a hint of a genuine smile shows at the corner of his mouth. His irritation is overtaken with excitement at seeing his eldest brother not only see past their crafted demeanour, but directly name the instigator. Curufin liked to influence people, to mould their thoughts to match his designs as one would work metal into a new and useful form, but even more exciting was when they quickened their wits of their own accord and thwarted his bid to do so. That was worthy of respect.
Curufin grins and holds his hand out to Maedhros, who raises an eyebrow and clasps it in his much larger hands. "That was fun, big brother. Thanks for playing with us!" Curufin winks cheekily, then pulls away and runs off with Celegorm in tow before Maedhros has a chance to respond.
Curufin stands at the bow of the foremost white vessel as they row the ships north along the coast. He keeps an eye on the shore where his father marches ahead with the majority of the host. Curufin and Maedhros had been tasked with leading the fleet, which Fëanor made sure was manned only by those loyal to his house. Curufin scans the long lines of winking torches and glowing lamps moving slowly upon the dim shores. The rest of his family are somewhere among those lights, probably scattered throughout the host to keep an eye on Fëanor's half-brothers and their following.
Well... not all the rest of his family. Some were left behind. His wife was one of them, as she would not forsake her teacher Aulë, despite the inaction and impositions of the Valar. Furthermore, she detested the oath Curufin swore with his father and brothers. Curufin regrets this, as she would have been a great help both in battle and in their crafts. He does not feel any bitterness towards her, curiously. Perhaps it is because they had always understood each other, and each went their separate ways whenever they wished. Or perhaps his emotions have simply all been spent for now, following the wrath and turmoil of their departure.
But Curufin had taken his son with him, as he could already recognise the talent inherited from his own father in the youngCelebrimbor. The boy should grow under Curufin's guidance, far away from the future of stagnation he envisions for those remaining behind. He thinks again of his wife. Then he thinks of the death of his grandfather, and the blood spilt as they took the ships. It is just another unfortunate affliction he shall have to bear on his way.
Curufin steps down and walks past the rowers, heading to the ship's rear to join Celebrimbor. Maedhros is sitting beside the child, his helm and sword cast aside carelessly.
Curufin gives his eldest brother a mirthless smile. "All is quiet. Not a sign of action from the Valar, not a murmur of dissent from the host."
Maedhros glances up and nods, but says nothing. Curufin folds his arms, studying his brother's face. He wonders if he looks just as terrible. "I know, brother." He hears the rough, distorted sound of his own voice and decides he does. "It was... surprising, was it not? But it had to be done. How else would we cross this sea in pursuit of our enemy? None will help us, and even our friends... sought to hinder us."
***
Celebrimbor doesn't know why, but he feels like crying. And yet looking at the faces of his uncle and father, he decides to keep that feeling hidden. He knows there was a battle to obtain the ships, but he had been left with the people bringing their provisions, and did not see all that had happened. More people had died in the battle, certainly, just like his great-grandfather the king, and yet this time he feels it would be a dangerous thing to grieve. Celebrimbor is perplexed. He rests his chin on his hands. He is sure there is a better word than 'dangerous' for this feeling. What could it be, now...? Cowardly? Disrespectful? ...Hypocritical? He cannot tell. But mulling over insignificant details is what he'd rather be doing now, in any case. He hugs his knees to his chest and lets out an almost imperceptible sigh. But for the splashing of the oars, all is now silent. No... there is something else. Celebrimbor hears weeping in the distance, a directionless sound carried in the salt of the sea air, and he closes his eyes, listening to the wind that cries where he cannot.
***
The ship lurches violently all of a sudden and Curufin stumbles. He catches himself on the wooden railing, just in time to see a wave rise up under the second ship behind them and send it ploughing sideways into the prow of the third. The deck sways under his feet again. Shouts and wails are heard from the merged vessels, their pale outline darkening as they are borne down into an ever-deepening trough and sucked under a hill of gloomy water that crashes down, its thunder sharpened by the crack of rending timber. Curufin's stomach drops as their ship's stern tilts down towards the splintered wreck, but the water swiftly rises again and propels them forward. More cries ring out over the water, echoed by those standing helplessly on the shore. The ships behind can hardly be seen through the sea spray that rises like fog from the churning waves. Their lamps, ghostly and sad, rise and fall erratically. A few lights sway sharply. They go out. Another cluster does the same. The cracking and squealing of wood reaches Curufin's ears again, once, twice. More lights are lost, but no more sounds are heard over the growing roar of the sea. As Curufin looks on, he spies another light, far away, somehow visible amongst the swirling mists. It is not a lamp but a column, its sea-green hue reminiscent of a quiet bay, though it trembles and blazes like lightning between clouds. The figure raises its arms to the heavens, then bends over as though wounded with despair. A piercingly cold blast of salt spray whips Curufin across the face and he bows his head, unable to meet the gaze of the Lady of the Seas. He sinks down to the sodden planks of the deck, chilled to the core. Breathing heavily, he leans his back against the bulwark and groans in disgust, disoriented by the wild rising, falling and pitching of the vessel. Maedhros has his head in his hands, and Celebrimbor is staring ahead with some unreadable expression that Curufin might consider eerily calm, given their situation. Another wave of cold seizes Curufin's body, and he shuts his eyes, the sound of the keening Sea bypassing his ears and reverberating in his skull.
====
Jagged peaks stand darkly against the star-strewn sky, growing ever more imposing as the remaining ships crawl slowly up the coastline, which has been veering steadily to the east for some time. The lights borne by those wearily marching on the shore stand out against the shadowy rock, yet they cannot illuminate it, insignificant pinpoint dots against the silent mountains and cold sky. The sea is entirely still and dark, giving Curufin the impression their ship is drifting through an inkwell. Both he and Maedhros are standing at the bow, mutely keeping watch. Celebrimbor sits by his feet. Hardly a word has passed between the three of them since the storm.
Suddenly, Curufin feels his eyes drawn to a point just above the foot of a mountain. Drawn by a very heavy presence. Maedhros makes a stifled noise and grips the railing, apparently sensing the same. Curufin sees nothing, and manages a sideways glance to check what his brother is looking at... Also at nothing, clearly, as Maedhros' eyes are shut tight and his shoulders are bowed. Mildly irked, Curufin returns his attention to the mountainside. He starts. A pale mist now cloaks that spot, contrasting with the black rock despite the lack of a proper light source. In the space of a blink, a figure gloomy and imposing as the peaks above stands within the mist, and Curufin cannot be certain that he hasn't been seeing it all along.
With a clunking of oars, the rowers stop abruptly as they hear the voice. It is a terrible, weighty one and it reaches all ears in an instant.
"People of the Noldor, by your deeds ye have brought upon yourselves a grievous doom. Therefore hearken to these words. The shadow that lieth over Aman and Middle-earth is not one that may be lifted by any labour of your own. Indeed, even were the remnants of the hallowed Light regained by your hands, the darkness over your hearts would remain.
"Courage ye have, yet grief shall weaken it. Loyalty ye have, yet it shall not stave off the sundering of bonds. Skill shall ye keep, yet ill use shall drain the joy from it. And once ye find your feet standing at the door of Death, the works of your hearts shall be far from your hands.
"All this shall ye find if ye continue upon your way, and fail to repent of your deeds."
A quiet yet intense uncertainty settles in Curufin's stomach, and no reasoning in his mind can touch it. It is true that the blood of the slain has left its mark on him. Some pain sits upon his soul that he does not wish to examine further. He knows why Maedhros could not bear to face the solemn presence. He... understands. A brief sadness clouds Curufin's expression. Perhaps part of him wishes he too could take things to heart so readily. But he supposes he will remain insolent.
He decides to wait and see how his father responds. This loyalty, at least, underlined by an Oath, shall never be cast aside. No Vala could ever come between them and sunder the bonds of Fëanor's family.
There is no movement from the host on the shore, and the voice continues. "But if ye will not consent to remain here and seek the doom and pardon of the Valar..." "Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.
"Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken."
The uncertainty in Curufin's stomach curdles to hostility. The Valar. Seek the pardon of the Valar, those who remain static in their grief and let their wayward kin do whatever he wishes? They barely heed the death and destruction Morgoth deals, and yet are so very quick to tell the Elves to halt once they wage a war of their own. Is it because the Valar see them as lesser in might, and as such, an easy target? He grits his teeth. At least those who follow Fëanor do not suffer from this kind of cowardice. They will brave these dooms and more.
Curufin's body is tense as he stares at the points of light on the shore. The rear of the host stirs, they are slowly trudging back the way they came... No! The rear have broken away. The majority of the host still stands.
Then, they begin to move. North. A spark in his eye, Curufin signals for the elves below to row onwards. They will not turn back.
***
Celebrimbor's hidden tears dry up entirely at the dreadful words of prophecy.
He is now sure he will never cry again.
The dark plain glows with the orange blaze of evil flame. The coils of a fiery whip ensnare the lone figure and he is thrown to the ground. Curufin's mind is almost void of thought as he presses onwards with his brothers and their soldiers. They are still too far away. Fëanor struggles, loosening the burning bonds and cutting himself free with his sword. On his feet once more, he slashes at the Balrog; it recoils, sparks bleeding from the shadows, as the undaunted Calaquendë ducks another's flaming scourge. Fëanor fights on all the more ferociously, striking down the few remaining Orcs that cower in his path, though his movements have an increasingly wavering quality to them. A shadow demon swings its sword at him from the side, and he leaps back— right into the axe blade of the greatest Balrog. Fëanor falters. The blow is swiftly and violently followed by another. Fëanor is slammed into the ground. This time he does not get up. The looming form reaches down.
With his long stride, Maedhros is to the fore. With a shout of rage, he thrusts his blade into the Balrog's arm before it can lay a hand on the fallen elven king. The dark figure draws itself up to its full height, fire running down like rivers from its head and shoulders. Curufin reaches his father and stands ready to defend him. He hears Celegorm's cry as the other soldiers charge past: "Onwards! Drive these foul spirits back!"
The great Balrog's fathomless gaze flickers down at Curufin and Maedhros. It makes no move with blade or flame. Is it uncertain? Slowly, it turns away from them. Before Curufin can guess any further at its intentions, the shadow demon leaps clear over the soldiers of Celegorm without a backwards glance. The Balrogs retreat, their fire fading quickly and their shadows becoming indistinguishable from the murky northern darkness.
Curufin kneels down beside his father, numbly staring at the motionless body. Maedhros does the same and carefully rolls Fëanor onto his back. At least someone here has his wits about him...! Though Curufin's faint acerbic thought does not sting him for long. Fëanor's body is rent apart, with broken shreds of mail melted fast into numerous stretches of weeping and blackened open flesh. Almost not daring to breathe, Curufin reaches out a hand that seems not his own in this alien landscape. With his fingers almost touching his father's face, Curufin feels the slightest puff of breath, irregular but present. He yet lives! Still unsteady, Curufin pushes Maedhros' shoulder more roughly than he intended. "Brother! Bestir yourself! We must get him away from here!" This time it is Maedhros who has fallen into shock. But to Curufin's relief, the untiring Celegorm approaches quickly, with Maglor trailing behind.
The crowns of the mountains above are hidden in mist. Cautiously, the brothers and their soldiers begin making their way up the path towards the mountain pass. Fëanor lies on a stretcher made from cloaks and two spears, borne by Celegorm and Caranthir. They had removed as much of his ruined mail shirt as they were able. Torn cloth is packed into the hideously deep wounds inflicted by the Balrog's axe. The blood soaks through already. Curufin walks beside his father, compulsively glancing at him now and then. Fëanor's eyes are open, but he has not said anything as yet. Curufin wonders if he is able to. He examines his father's face. Tries to catch his eye. Fëanor does not appear to notice. Still, what Curufin sees there disturbs him mightily. Fëanor's mind, once clear as a crystal and bright as a star, is shattered into pieces like glass. Curufin wonders how long it has been splintering away like that. Did none of them see it? Or has it only become visible now that Fëanor's body is utterly spent? Another fainter thought rises with the prickling in his eyes. How could none of them have seen it? Curufin blinks to clear his vision, now determined not to let the slightest change in his father's state escape him. The silence is so empty it seems to draw everything into it.
Then Fëanor speaks.
"Stop..." The word is drawn from his throat with great effort. His face twitches restlessly and he groans as he moves a hand to grip the side of the stretcher with surprising strength. "Halt. Here...!"
"Set him down!" The words are out of Curufin's mouth quicker than thought. Maedhros calls for their soldiers to halt.
With great care, Celegorm and Caranthir lower the stretcher, Curufin making sure it meets the ground gently. They look at Fëanor, then at Maedhros, unsure what to do. Fëanor looks much more alert now, though he appears to be out of breath, contending with his own pain for the mastery of his body. He briefly lifts a hand, signalling them to come closer. Maglor and Curufin sit the nearest, kneeling on either side of him. Maglor sinks down first. His exhaustion is palpable, the thick stream of blood seeping from under his helm contrasting sharply with his pale face.
Lying still once more, Fëanor's eyes are fixed on something in the distance, across the vast plain. From their point on the rocky slope, the far-off mountains of shadow can be made out, their grim and ruinous peaks stretching up into a starless gloom of smoke.
Curufin returns his attention to his father, confused. Fëanor is silent. Then his expression hardens, with something steely and uncharacteristically cold in his gaze that Curufin has never seen before.
When next Fëanor speaks, his voice, a halting whisper at first, grows louder and stronger, until it almost matches the one that made the Oath.
"Morgoth... Maker of lies... Maker of strife. May his own words deceive him, consume him, and bring him to nothing. Morgoth, craven who shuts himself in an iron jail of his own design. May his prison of doom never yield him up until the world breaks. Morgoth, foe of the world! May the light burn his hands and eyes for all the grief and evil he has wrought, leaving him in darkness forever."
Fëanor looks directly at Curufin, gaze bloodshot yet shining bright. His eyes land on each of the brothers in turn.
"Hold to your oath, my sons. He has taken so much from us all. He..." Fëanor's voice falters. "Avenge your father, as I..." His eyes darken, his voice weakens once more. "I... could not avenge mine." His breath catches, agony written in his face.
Yet there is... something else there too. Is it hopelessness? Despair...? Curufin wonders if he is imagining it, but in any case, his father need not worry. Leaving the Oath aside would be unthinkable; as far as he is concerned, that ship has long since sailed. Yes, he will uphold it. For the sake of the ones he loves, who have been so... ruined by their adversaries. He is having a hard time even countenancing that his father has been overcome. He frowns, biting his lip. Even if their hope grows thin, there is always a way. If not by force alone, then by cunning, he will eventually find some way to avenge Fëanor and Finwë and snatch the unsullied Light from Morgoth's corrupted grasp.
Tremors pass through Fëanor's body, and Curufin gently takes hold of his marred hand, as hot as the ashes around dying embers, overheated sinews barely retaining their shape, fluids leaking down between his fingers. Maglor, whose hand rests on Fëanor's head, looks as though he would be praying, but his eyes are open; he can no longer find it in himself.
Curufin bows his head. For now, he will follow and aid his brothers, learning more about this new land and the situation with Morgoth, until he knows enough to discern an opportunity from a false hope and can begin making plans of his own.
As Fëanor stares skywards, unseeing, his breath changes painfully, quickening, as though he is struggling against something. All of a sudden, the hand in Curufin's grasp loses its power, feeling strangely empty. Fëanor's eyes widen in apprehension. Curufin spies a bright light flickering fiercely in their depths, growing nearer and stronger and—
Curufin falls back in shock.
White and red flames flow out from his father's body, silently flaring upwards and disappearing. An ashy cast is left behind, which soon dissipates into the wind like a cloud of smoke.
Curufin trembles. He remains kneeling, unmoving, staring at the bare cloaks and bloodstained ground before him.
Caranthir is the first to leave, muttering something sharp and unintelligible under his breath.
Maedhros follows him, and soon his distant voice is heard giving orders.
Celegorm rises swiftly and strides away without a word.
The twins depart lightly, the sound of each step hesitant, weary.
The wind howls through the rocks of the mountain, the soldiers have all gone.
Maglor rises to his feet with an effort. Curufin hears a shaky sob, from pain, sorrow or both. Maglor stays standing for a moment. "Curufin... come along now." His voice, though weakened, is clear and distinct as always.
Curufin does not move.
Soon, his brother's unsteady footfalls recede away into nothing.
The wind howls.
The wind changes direction. He feels it more strongly, beating against his body.
The wind dies down.
Silence.
Slightly disturbed dust falls in a tiny stream down the slope.
Silence.
Nothing more.
Nothing.
Curufin feels a hand on his shoulder and straightens up. How long has he been here?
Maedhros stands there, his face gentle, though his eyes burn with a determined rage against the Enemy that Curufin himself has not the strength to harbour in his own mind yet.
Amras appears on Curufin's other side and helps him stand.
Curufin keeps his head bowed as they walk. To his dismay, he must remain leaning on Amras the entire way, unable to stand on his own, even as they enter a newly constructed encampment.
Celegorm meets them and Curufin looks up at him, ashamed and helpless, as his brother grips his hand and mutters something. Curufin shakes his head, not even grasping what people are saying anymore.
====
Celebrimbor has been mending armour and weapons since he awoke. How long he has been doing so, he would not be able to say. He does not want to watch the stars. He wants to fix things for people. These are the problems he's good at sorting out for his family, unlike their personal and interpersonal troubles and griefs, which only end up saddening and frustrating him.
His father hadn't been very well lately. He had only recently returned from spending all his time asleep in Celegorm's tent. Celebrimbor wonders if he had been wounded in the battle. He hopes he will take better care of himself in the future.
There! Celebrimbor looks with satisfaction upon the helm he holds up in front of him. There is no longer any trace of the awful dent that marred its crown. Not only that, but both sides of the helm curve identically, retaining their symmetry. With a spring in his step, he goes to find Maglor.
As Celebrimbor enters the tent, Maglor lays his pen aside on the low table that serves as his desk. The acting monarch's automated smile softens as he marks the identity of his visitor. Celebrimbor hands Maglor the mended helm, noting the ink on his paper has long been dry. "Here, uncle. It should fit the same as before."
Maglor runs a finger over the perfectly smooth metal. He raises his eyebrows, still gazing at it. "No doubt it shall!" He absently brushes the wound, glued together with resin, which disappears into his hair. "Many thanks." His expression lights up and he gives Celebrimbor a sideways glance. "I'll try it on, shall I?" Maglor slowly and gingerly lowers the helm onto his head, squinting upwards with one eye closed in intense concentration. Finally, it rests in its right place. Maglor taps his chin, deliberating, then tilts his head in approval. "As I expected. A perfect fit. Let's see them try to draw my brains out again with this solid piece of work in the way!" He carelessly grips the helm by the crest with one hand and yanks it off with a flourish, before cringing and putting his fingers to his forehead. "Argh, ow." Celebrimbor sees the joke twinkling in his uncle's eyes and giggles. Maglor makes a great show of patting around the top of his head, as though assuring himself everything is still attached. "That is, if I do not draw those brains out myself first," he mutters.
Celebrimbor takes a step back, smiling. "Until I see you later, uncle. I'm glad my work turned out as it should." He turns to leave. "Get well soon." He does not look back as he exits the tent. Maglor makes no response.
***
In his tent, Curufin wonders where the sword and dagger he had left on the table could have gone to. The tent flap rustles and Celebrimbor comes in, eyes serious but face bright. He returns the missing weapons to the table, hesitates a moment, then hops over to his father and squeezes him around the middle in a tight embrace, until Curufin gets over his surprise, returns the embrace and kisses his son on the head. Celebrimbor runs off again, likely returning to his mission of repairing everything he can get his hands on. Curufin picks up the dagger; it is newly sharpened. And the sword, which had a tiny piece chipped out of it before, looks and feels as good as new.
Curufin is proud of his son, but he does occasionally wonder about the workings of his mind. The relationship between them has always been different to the one he shared with his own father. Celebrimbor is far more affectionate, for one, with a perplexing habit of clinging to him at random times. Curufin cannot recall ever wanting to cuddle up to Fëanor in this manner. He would, however, seek out his father alone to pour out his innermost thoughts and feelings to him. Constantly. Whenever he was excited, or anxious, or disappointed... Curufin flicks his gaze to the side, staving off unnecessary memory. This is something which Celebrimbor has never really done, either in his face or his words. Curufin supposes the tranquil stoicism resembles that of his wife. He pauses. His lip curls. He taps the flat of his dagger's blade against his palm. A little too harshly; it stings. Other things sting too. He shakes his head, no, sheathes the dagger, strides to the tent's opening, no they do n- they will not, and stares at the mist outside. Join his son at the forge? No. Not like this. Celebrimbor does not need to be troubled by...
Curufin turns away, leans on the table, finally sinks down, sitting on his low, roughly constructed bed. Eventually things will improve...!
Since Fëanor... well... Curufin still finds himself waking suddenly from dreamless sleep, his body weeping or trembling of its own accord. He wipes his damp palms on his tunic, frowns. This kind of thing has never happened before. He does not know if it afflicts anyone else. It thoroughly disconcerts him. Only his son shares his tent. He has not seen or heard anything of the sort from the boy. He shakes his head. And it should remain that way. So. As he had decided. Celebrimbor does not need to be troubled by this.
***
Time has passed. Perhaps the stars are different, though Celebrimbor has not been watching them turn. He is restless, though he has helped everyone in his family with at least one small thing in that undefined time. He should be tired, but he is not. He looks out to the north. There is one person he has not fixed anything for. His uncle Maedhros.
Maglor and Father must know best. If there was anything he could do, he would. Thoughts alone are wasted.
But one young Elf cannot blast the Iron Hells red with heat and reforge them into an open door from which anyone could walk out, no matter how great the skill of his hand.
Celebrimbor turns away abruptly and stalks off. He will try his hardest to preserve the tools of his remaining family, so their lives, perhaps, may be preserved too.
Maedhros sits in a chair, his brothers gathered around him. He had called them here for some purpose. Curufin scrutinises his face, wondering if he will like this news. Maedhros notices. The glassy, pale eyes shimmer oddly, appearing unperturbed.
"I mean to lay aside my claim to kingship." His voice cracks, the sound falling flat and failing to resonate in the air. Celegorm makes a noise, stifled as Maedhros' gaze flicks over to him. "The crown will pass to Fingolfin. It will go some way towards mending the strife between our houses." Maedhros' fingers pull at the opening of his right sleeve, empty but for a lump of cloth. His expression twitches.
Curufin stares at his brother, some unnamed emotion stirring within, too far down to be noticed.
Caranthir's voice is a soft grumble, though he does not scowl yet. "But it's still yours. Ours, I mean. If you lay it aside, by right it should go to Maglor."
There is an intake of breath from Maglor, and an interjection from Celegorm. "If you wish to waive your claim also, brother, I shall be fain to lift the burden from your shoulders."
Maedhros starts, surprised for a moment, as though he had forgotten their presence. He smiles grimly, but his eyes glide over them, unfocused. "We deserted the greater part of our people as we crossed the sea. Even now, I am hardly king over all the Noldor."
He gives up on the attempt to focus his gaze, leans his head down, the remaining hand pressed to his forehead. There is a faint tremble to his arm, though his voice is unchanged. "The majority of my people followed Fingolfin and Finrod over the Grinding Ice. Do you think these would accept me so readily, over the princes who led them to Middle-earth and have shared their hardships thus far?"
Maedhros' mien has darkened. Curufin's expression is blank. He is struggling to breathe under the weight of what rises in his breast like molten rock driven from the heart of the earth. His eldest brother's decision is eminently reasonable, and is, in fact, the only practical solution. Yet... He bites his lip.
Some residual muttering emanates from Celegorm. Caranthir and Maglor are silent. Amrod and Amras stand with their arms folded, looking at the floor.
Maedhros braces his hand against the armrest and slowly rises to his feet. He sweeps his gaze over them all, right side straining almost imperceptibly as it is forced to hold his lopsided posture. "No, it is decided. I shall meet with Fingolfin tomorrow." Decided...! Curufin has the impression something bitter is trying to crawl its way up his throat. He swallows. It is painful.
He bows his head to his eldest brother. Say what you like to Fingolfin, you will hear no argument from me. He cannot bring himself to speak, and exits in haste. The only sound he leaves behind is the clack of the door as it shuts.
The Sun draws near to the horizon. The chill wind rustles through his hair as he escapes, skirting the great house. He walks, blind to his surroundings, realising what had struck him as Maedhros' words entered his ears. Betrayal. Curufin feels betrayed at the loss of the kingship. He shakes his head. This is ridiculous. Personally betrayed, as though his brother is favouring others over his own family with this. He smirks. His own family, who never went to look for him.We listened to our reason.
And he should be listening to reason at this very moment. A son of Fëanor as High King would never work. Why should the people be constrained to follow those who had betrayed them? If they were ever going to alleviate these tensions and unite against their true foe, the sons of Fëanor would have to defer to the leader of the majority. The sons of Fëanor... By this decision, we have cast aside what our father did not want to lose. Curufin would never favour anyone over those of his own house. So why had Maedhros... He knows why! He is going in circles, and cannot reconcile these two lines of thought. This is foolish. He has agreed with his brother's decision, and he must come to terms with it. You have not been betrayed. It weighs on him, he cannot master it, it will not be discarded. He had never thought he would lose his self-possession. A small smile comes to his face. He can't say he likes it.
He finds himself pushing open the door of the forge.
There is a narrow rod of metal in his hands.
No light, no gems, nothing to capture and return the rays of Moon and Sun, the steel is dreadfully plain, the heated metal of the rod is twisted over and over until it resembles the wrought iron beneath the spikes of a fence.
Each stroke of the hammer echoes through him, with a feeling of air passing by an open wound. Each motion of his hands reopens it, as they must. He realises. He is cut to the heart.
He shrugs, and does not relent.
Nearly blindly, the twisted rod curves, clamped, hammered, bent into a ring.
Curufin's mind is utterly silent as his movements grow gentler, more precise, fewer, further between, until he stops. It has been made.
He gazes at it, unmoving, as it cools. A single band of plain, twisted metal. In his mind's eye, it appears like a wrought iron gate, left open between a little garden and a vast untended field. It is darker than the steel he started with, and no longer gleams in the light. He cannot account for it.
He has no more use for it. He ducks out of the workshop, as if by chance runs directly into Celebrimbor. Hands him the ring. "Perhaps you can make something out of this," he shrugs, offhand. "It is just a piece of scrap metal." He strides off.
***
Celebrimbor glances over the ring. It is hardly something impressive. Even as a small boy, he had worked together with his father on far more difficult projects.
There is something about it.
Gently, he holds it to his heart. He spots his father in the middle distance, joining Caranthir by a small open fire. He softly shakes his head in disagreement, and puts the ring in a pocket on his belt.
***
Curufin sits on a log opposite Caranthir, the lone occupant of this outdoor seating place. They sit in companionable silence, occasionally punctuated by Caranthir voicing his displeasure at one thing or another. He does not bring up the matter of the kingship again, though Curufin knows it must still bother him. No doubt to avoid any talk behind Maedhros' back. Caranthir has always been direct in that way.
Curufin has no wish to stir himself up again either. So he gazes at the flames, or stares at the ground, and simply listens. That strange spell of his has passed, at least.
====
Maedhros approaches Fingolfin, his footfall on one side noticeably more heavy than the other. Despite it, his movements retain something of the assured grace he has always had, and he stands tall before his uncle.
Curufin watches on evenly as his brother asks forgiveness for having deserted them in Araman, before sinking to one knee and passing the kingship to the eldest of the house of Finwë. Curufin winces, only because his brother is still wounded and such a shift in posture would have been difficult for him to execute. Or so he tells himself.
Yet another thing belonging by right to his father has been lost.
Curufin and Celebrimbor stand upon the ramparts of their newly built Eastern Fortress, Rómenos, facing its older western twin Númenos across the Pass of Aglon. The cold north wind whips through their hair and clothing. Dust from the recent stonework flies away in a particularly violent gust. Curufin thinks again of his father.
The fortresses had been named as a tribute to Fëanor's Northern Fortress in Aman, the door of which he shut in Morgoth's face. The same would be done here whenever evil stirred in the north, with Celegorm's army from Númenos and Curufin's army from Rómenos closing across the pass like gates, barring the way to all invaders of the Enemy.
The Noldor have returned to Middle-earth. This is their land, not Morgoth's nor any other's. With these fortresses the sons of Fëanor have laid claim to Himlad, and they will guard it with their might.
This was what Fëanor had wished. Yet the first thing he would have retaken is the last thing they have to regain. The Silmarils.
And as for their quest of vengeance... only Orcs have fallen foul of it thus far. But they must shore up their own defences before they can hope to pierce the Black Foe's.
Curufin glances over at Celebrimbor. The boy... He smiles. He cannot exactly call him a boy any longer, as the youth has surpassed his height. Celebrimbor has shown himself to be a fine heir of his grandfather's house. The skill of his hand will surely match Fëanor's, someday. As for the skill of his mind... well, there is something Curufin is not quite sure of yet.
Celebrimbor had picked up Sindarin quickly enough, yet he has not shown any further interest in words or their uses.
And while he makes and mends many things for their people, open to requests from anyone, the rest of his time is spent... fiddling around. Creating some strange item, taking it apart, putting it back together, destroying it and creating something else. He is clearly experimenting with different techniques, and that is understandable, but Curufin cannot see an obvious end goal, or even a clear train of thought connecting his projects. Fëanor's interests, purposes and desires had always burned brightly in the sight of his close family at least, if not in the sight of all.
What does he hope to achieve in the end, with all he is figuring out? Does he have anything in mind at all? And does he consider himself an heir of Fëanor's house, in spirit, not in body alone? Curufin wonders, and decides to test. No. To make sure.
But as Curufin is casting about for the best subtle words, it is his son who questions him.
"Do you think we'll ever see their like again?" Celebrimbor's face is turned towards the Western Fortress, though his eyes are drawn to a place higher and further away.
It is rare for him to initiate conversation. Curufin is surprised. "To what do you refer?"
"The Silmarils." His bearing is open, yet unreadable.
Curufin shakes his head. "The Silmarils? It is impossible. The light they hold is beyond recall. It has gone from the world of the living." His tone of voice is soft, and just as indecipherable.
Celebrimbor is looking into the Sun. "But something no lesser in consequence could be made, though it must be different in quality."
Curufin raises his eyebrows. Now these are ambitious thoughts. Does he realise the extent of what went into making the Great Jewels? If his son were to undertake a similar task, a meeting of skill and knowledge equal to Fëanor's would be required, at the very least.
Curufin's voice becomes grave. "My father told me what it took to make them. The Silmarils needed all the lore he had mastered, the full extent of his skill of hand, and the very power of his spirit.
"Even then, a great part of his knowledge was secret, discoveries made by himself and known only unto himself. Otherwise, do you not think I would have followed him and made something like to those Jewels myself?"
Celebrimbor pauses. His brow creases ever so slightly. "It seems like a waste. If his sources of learning are not themselves completely gone from the world, someone else might well find the same things he did, if they dedicated themselves to the search. All hiding knowledge does is set others back unnecessarily."
Curufin is thrown somewhat off balance. That... had not been his point. At all.
His son is curiously impervious to external suggestion. Curufin falls silent for a moment, sifting through his thoughts.
Celebrimbor's skill of hand would rival Fëanor's in time, that he had already established. As for seeking out and mastering the knowledge required for such a great work... Curufin supposes his son's reasoning isn't entirely unsound. Yet one thing remains.
"The inspiration for the Silmarils entered into my father's thought and captured his heart. Such that the very fire of his spirit went into their making.
"Could anyone match Fëanor's spirit, as their power goes into their works?" At this last, Curufin's voice cracks. He does not dwell on it, looking at his son pointedly.
Celebrimbor turns to face him. He seems mildly puzzled. "I think you would be hard pressed to find a match for any one of us, seeing as no two Elves are the same. ...I admire my grandfather, and wish to follow his example in the domain of craft. Though I may not make Silmarils, my efforts will be alike to his."
The response gives Curufin pause. He lowers his gaze, contemplating the stone of the parapet.
He had tried to learn about his son's mind, had attempted to press his thoughts in a certain direction. And here he was, still entirely unsure as to whether the answers to his questions had been obtained or not.
Slowly, a smile forms on his face. Celebrimbor. Hand of Silver. Perhaps his son should have been named after quicksilver instead. The metal that cannot be moulded to hold a shape, remaining molten no matter how it is constrained. Celebrimbor's thoughts had flowed around Curufin's words, merely acknowledging them without being halted or persuaded.
Like Fëanor, he will only be swayed by his own decisions. Although his mind is tempered differently.
Fëanor had been unyielding, and Curufin had thought him as indestructible as one of his great gems. Yet in the end, even this strongest of unyielding minds had been chipped away at and broken.
Celebrimbor's fluent mind, on the other hand, could prove far more resistant against the Enemy and his cruel designs.
Curufin returns his attention to his son, still smiling. He nods, and Celebrimbor follows him as they descend the stairs, heading towards the inner fortress. A gift and a blessing, in this marred world.
====
Curufin is admiring the newest addition to the walls of Rómenos. Three tall flagpoles. Several large flags of different colours lie rolled up at their bases.
He and Celegorm had devised the flag system as a means to signal their soldiers in the field and communicate the movements of their troops to the other fortress. Unless there was a need for independent action, Rómenos would wait for Númenos to signal their intentions first, and respond accordingly. This would ensure their armies were following the same plan of action.
Curufin's gaze lands upon the pulley system of the pole he is standing under. He had designed and crafted it himself. It functions perfectly, and is pleasing to the eye.
Yet now the excitement of making something new has worn off, it looks so, so ordinary. He looks over at the pulley on the next pole, this one crafted by his son. They work equally well, they are shaped in the same way, but... the difference is clear.
Curufin's expression becomes fixed, blank, as he considers. Only his brothers ask him to make things for them. He is the one who offers to craft things for anyone else. Or else he simply sees something that needs doing and does it. When his people are the ones taking initiative, they ask Celebrimbor every time. Who always obliges: he does not spend much time idle, and seems to draw equal satisfaction from mending and creating.
An obvious reason does exist. His people may well be too anxious or overawed, unwilling to ask their chieftain to repair or construct what might be classed as ordinary things.
Curufin decides this must be the case. After all, as the lord of Himlad's Eastern Fortress, he has greater responsibilities than these to attend to.
Yet the qualm within him still lingers.
The soldier leaves the chamber. Curufin sits thoughtfully in his carved wooden chair. He tests the point of one of his new arrowheads against his finger as he ponders the news.
Aredhel had been seen riding again, accompanied by a tall young Elf. She had crossed their lands in haste and passed over the Fords of Aros.
How strange. It was almost a mirror image of her solitary journey many years prior.
For a long time, there had been no news of her. Along with her brother Turgon and his people, she had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. They had not gone east, for the passing of such a host would not have gone unmarked by the people of Himlad or the followers of Amrod and Amras. North was out of the question. South was a possibility. Yet their cousin Finrod, who dwelt in those lands, often rode east in search of adventure, and never did he bring tidings of his friend Turgon with him.
Then all of a sudden—and, as chance would have it, during the time Celegorm and Curufin were away in Thargelion with Caranthir—Aredhel passed over Aros, riding alone, and Celegorm's people had welcomed her to their lands. But from Númenos she had gone out daily, not content to stay within its walls, wishing to wander in the woodlands. Ever further, staying longer, until one day she rode far to the south, and did not return. Nan Elmoth lay that way, a dark and ancient wood, where dwelt a Moriquendë of the most intractable kind. Yet the scouts of Celegorm and Curufin had not seen her crossing the border, and once again, none could truly tell where she had gone.
The years had gone by. And now this news. She had reappeared just as suddenly near the Fords. Apparently riding from the south. And she had well-nigh fled back the way she came, towards the west. So wherever Turgon was holed up, it had to be that way somewhere.
But what had she fled from? And with whom?
Curufin returns his arrow to the quiver. This, he is determined to find out. Aredhel should not have disappeared in his lands, under his watch, in the first place. He would not excuse himself by citing his absence at the time.
Besides, his curiosity about the disappearing acts of his cousins has been kindled anew. The answers to his questions may well be found along the way.
His quiver slung over his shoulder, Curufin stops at the forge. Standing in the doorway, he smiles as his son looks up from his work. "I think it is time I got some archery practice in. I shall be riding south to the Arossiach. Take charge of the fortress until my return."
*** Celebrimbor nods, eyes briefly passing over Curufin's expression. He knows his father has more than archery in mind. But he asks no questions, for if half the reason were so readily given, he is sure to get no real answer if he were to ask for the rest. His father is strange like that, he supposes. A faint smile comes to his lips. Though it is somewhat entertaining when others get confused by it.
***
Curufin leads his black horse from the stables. There is a gleam in his eye. "Come along, Horse. Let us hunt for more strange tidings." Horse tosses its head.
====
Curufin steps out of his tent, hearing rapidly approaching hoofbeats. Two of the soldiers he sent out as scouts are returning to the encampment, their spears pointed at a third rider between them.
Curufin's expression shutters itself, lest he openly show his disgust. It is the Dark Elf, Eöl. As the soldiers have him dismount, Curufin's gaze is drawn to his black armour. A dart of envy shoots through him, soon swallowed up by anger.
Whatever passion Eöl puts into his works, it is rotten. Curufin can practically see it bleeding out of the Dark Elf's armour. Questionable as some of his own family's deeds may be in the eyes of the Eldar, at least they each strive to put something good and powerful and beautiful into their own works, following the literally shining example of their father.
Only mocking disdain creeps into Curufin's voice as he addresses the elf before him. "What errand have you, Dark Elf, in my lands? An urgent matter, perhaps, that keeps one so sun-shy abroad by day."
The brief twitch of Eöl's face betrays his ire, yet his tone is almost absurdly polite. "I have learned, Lord Curufin, that my son and my wife, the White Lady of Gondolin, have ridden to visit you while I was from home; and it seemed to me fitting that I should join them on this errand."
Curufin is silent, his expression unchanging. His eyes do not leave Eöl's, though his mind is deep in thought. Wife and son? Now this is news indeed.
And Gondolin... so Aredhel had mentioned where she came from at some stage, while she was dwelling with her... husband.
Curufin's lip twists ever so slightly. All this time, Aredhel had been so close to their borders, and yet from her silence, she must have been prevented from sending word to them.
Not unlike her previous long silence in her brother's realm. No wonder she could not bear to stay confined within the walls of Númenos. Then she had wandered freely for a while, only to fall into the clutches of this shameless forest-dweller.
Curufin's attention returns to the Dark Elf, the heady feeling of satisfied curiosity blending with the burn of his rising disgust and anger. He begins to chuckle quietly, and Eöl flinches. At this, Curufin's laughter morphs into a sound of genuine amusement. He shakes his head and smiles, matching Eöl's absurdly polite tone.
"They might have found their welcome here less warm than they hoped, had you accompanied them; but it is no matter, for that was not their errand. It is not two days since they passed over the Arossiach, and thence rode swiftly westward." His smile broadens. "It seems that you would deceive me; unless indeed you yourself have been deceived."
Eöl's face is carefully blank, revealing nothing. His voice, however, is quieter than before. He is treading on treacherous ground, and he knows it. Good. Let him squirm.
"Then, lord, perhaps you will give me leave to go, and discover the truth of this matter." Eöl says no more, his demeanour impassive.
Curufin will get nothing else out of him, it seems. With curiosity thwarted, anger wins over, and the smile disappears. His tone is curt. "You have my leave, but not my love. The sooner you depart from my land the better will it please me."
Eöl mounts his horse. Curufin watches him, his expression similarly impassive.
If only this miserable excuse for an Elf were in the way of his Oath. He would not hesitate for a moment.
Unexpectedly, Eöl addresses him once more. "It is good, Lord Curufin, to find a kinsman thus kindly at need. I will remember it when I return."
Curufin's eyes widen. This—! He lets the veil over his own ire fall entirely, his voice cutting clear and whiplike through the air. "Do not flaunt the title of your wife before me. For those who steal the daughters of the Noldor and wed them without gift or leave do not gain kinship with their kin. I have given you leave to go. Take it, and be gone." Curufin pins down Eöl's gaze with his own. The Dark Elf cannot look away. "By the laws of the Eldar I may not slay you at this time." A flash of inspiration lights his eyes, and Curufin smiles in his wrath. "And this counsel I add: return now to your dwelling in the darkness of Nan Elmoth; for my heart warns me that if you now pursue those who love you no more, never will you return thither."
There is silence. The tent flap rustles in the wind.
Eöl urges his horse away without another word, rage and shame radiating from his posture.
Curufin exhales and turns back to his tent. He needs some target practice after this. Where are those arrows?
Curufin slows his mount as they reach a wooded area. The river crossing is visible between the trees. The air is still and the light bright, the silence only disturbed by Horse's soft hoofbeats and the distant murmur of the Aros.
He takes out an arrow, the perfectly weighted arrowhead glinting in the light as he sets the shaft to the bowstring. He forged these himself.
He spots his target, draws the bow back slowly, then makes a straight shot; straight as though the arrow were an extension of his own hand, of his own will, flying through the air and burying itself into the centre of a tree knot, as lightly and precisely as though his finger had reached out through an impossible distance to touch it.
Curufin's eyes light up, this time with satisfaction. Then he falls back into thought as he rides onward to retrieve the arrow. Never will you return thither... He had not spoken this out of a simple desire to unsettle or dissuade the Dark Elf.
It is the simple truth, he realises, or close to it.
If Gondolin lies in the west, in lands the Noldor ought to know well, the marked lack of news or travellers from that place must be a result of purposeful secrecy, and not a mere side effect of long distance or difficult terrain.
Finrod had done something similar with his own city, though the general location of Nargothrond had not remained a complete secret.
Whether Aredhel had escaped from Gondolin or was given leave to go, Curufin doubts Turgon would let such a thing happen again. Especially after hearing that this Dark Elf knows at least a little about his realm. And the idea of Eöl consenting to live peacefully among the Noldor...
Curufin draws Angrist, pares away the wood surrounding the arrow, and plucks it from the tree. He looks at the arrow for a moment. He sets it to his bow again, turns, and sends it flying in the direction Eöl left. He imagines it splitting his head open.
No, Eöl will not live long.
====
The sword crashes down upon Curufin's raised fist. He barely flinches. He flexes his fingers, the armoured mitten opening and closing. He nods at Celebrimbor, who steps back and sheathes his sword, a faint tremble in the movement.
His new invention is a success. Even a direct hit to the knuckles would not damage the delicate structures of his hand in the slightest.
Incomplete.
Curufin frowns slightly as he lays the gauntlets on his workbench. He runs a finger across the brightly polished segments.
The black gleam of another's armour swims into his mind's eye. And the metal under his hand looks frankly empty.
How could that Dark Elf have put so much strength of spirit into his work?
How could Curufin have been bested in such a manner, by such a person? How could he not match this, and surpass it, an Elf who has seen the Light, and the son of Fëanor who bears his father's name, no less?
INCOMPLETE.
The uneasiness has morphed into something else. The thought of the Silmarils, of the deaths unavenged, prickles and saws in the back of his mind. Curufin's thoughts scatter, his attention irresistibly drawn.
He turns away from the table. He cannot concentrate like this.
Curufin takes up his bow and arrows.
Horse shies away from him as he enters the stables, sensing his foul mood.
Curufin rides out through the gates. Whether he will hunt or shoot at inanimate targets, he does not know. But only games of war can lessen the Oath's hold on his mind when it rouses itself from sleep.
Curufin will be riding for the rest of the day. Horse will not thank him for it.
Celebrimbor finds himself carrying the conversation. Finrod's usual flood of words is dammed, with only a trickle passing through now and then, where before one tale would naturally flow into the next.
Since their arrival in Nargothrond, it had not been uncommon for Celebrimbor to sit for hours in the company of his kinsman, hearing of the many lands Finrod had travelled through and of the many people he had met and learned from.
There had been grief at first, for so many of Finrod's kin and friends had been slain in battle, or from the passage of time, in the case of the mortals.
Angrod and Aegnor had passed away, Bëor and Andreth were no more.
Yet in time, the open sadness had faded, as with their retelling, these memories of gladder days etched themselves ever deeper into the indomitable warmth of Felagund's heart.
Celebrimbor had found himself wondering what it would be like to do the same himself. Travelling far and wide, talking to people, taking interest in what knowledge they had to share. But his tongue would soon fail him in such an endeavour, he knew, unless a workbench of some kind lay between them.
Finrod falls silent once more. Celebrimbor does not press him any further. Finrod is looking into the distance. There is nothing on the opposite wall but a door and a lamp. Celebrimbor turns his gaze to the floor. Has the grief returned? It does that, at times, Celebrimbor knows. He misses the presence of Finwë, and the loss of Fëanor is still keenly felt. And there are those left behind. Though his mother still lives, she too is nothing but a memory.
Celebrimbor glances to the side. But then again... he supposes Finrod appears more troubled than sad.
Had Finrod had a disagreement with Curufin?
His father's dark mood had been obvious in the forge earlier, and though Celebrimbor had expressed his concern upon witnessing it, there had been no response. And it had been no surprise. These days, Curufin spoke mostly of plans. Plans, ideas and suggestions. To Celegorm, to Celebrimbor, to Finrod and the lords of Nargothrond. Never his own desires, nor anything that touched him near. Perhaps he still spoke of these things while alone with Celegorm, but Celebrimbor had never known him so distant. Not even after Fëanor's death. Curufin had not spoken much then, but the embrace of his arms had been warm. Now, however, Celebrimbor could almost believe he would not bleed if cut, so cold was he to the touch.
Finrod rises from his seat. Celebrimbor looks up.
"Do not be troubled on my account." Finrod places a hand on his shoulder, his smile gentle. "I have greatly enjoyed your company, my friend. My heart is heavy today, but it will soon pass. Until we meet again."
On that strange note of finality, he leaves. The door shuts behind him.
Celebrimbor feels shaken, though he does not know why.
But for the pounding of his heart, all is now silent.
***
Curufin is staring into the cooling coals of the forge furnace. He has been standing there since the fire was blazing white with heat. The unshaped metal under his hand lies forgotten.
The thought of regaining the Silmarils has come to his mind once again, for the first time since his arrival in Nargothrond. And it fills him with dread, such as it has never done before. Against the enemy who had well-nigh destroyed the northern lands with flame, what could any of them do? The might of the seven sons of Fëanor at their strongest and surest had been pitted against the might of Morgoth, and caught unawares, they had been found lacking. Maedhros still stood in the north as a single high rock amidst the sea, unmoved by the vain fury of the waves. Yet the rest of them had been forced to flee. Maglor to Maedhros, Caranthir, Amrod and Amras to Amon Ereb, and he and Celegorm to Finrod.
The image of a cold, steely, hopeless gaze cuts suddenly into his thought. Followed not long after by the silent flames of an unearthly fire. Curufin's own gaze darkens. The hand upon the forgotten metal trembles. Another spark flies from the mundane red-glowing coals.
He had not imagined what he saw in his father's face, after all. He knows that despair, for it is what now rises from his heart and chokes his mind like smoke. How could they ever wage war against Morgoth? Almost unconsciously, he clenches his teeth. But he cannot afford to despair like this. The Oath will not allow it. Even if all hope is gone, he must find a way. Some way. Any way.
How could they ever avenge all they have lost...?
Curufin shuts his eyes and exhales. The crisis slowly fades into the familiar ache for the loss of their fortresses. Rómenos and Númenos had held back every assault decisively and valiantly, while they had lasted. And now, nothing. Nothing left of this great work of his mind and his hands. It would take what he did not have to rebuild them, or something like them. Land, people, time, a strong system of defence, the ability to think about something other than the unfulfilled.
Curufin looks around, startled. The forge has gone dark, only the barest glow of red visible under the ashes in the furnace.
His fingers close around the cold piece of metal on the anvil. He gazes at its black silhouette in the dimness. What was I going to do with this? Even the idea is gone. He casts it aside. The metal clatters on the workbench.
The door slams behind him.
Upon entering his chambers, he finds Celegorm sitting there on a couch, legs crossed and propped up on a low table, absently chewing on the end of the cord fastening the collar of his outer garment.
Curufin says nothing and stands still.
His elder brother glances up at him and spits out the cord. He grins briefly, the smile not reaching his eyes. "You have been making nothing but trouble for yourself in there, haven't you? Your fingers are clean, but your eyes are mirk."
Curufin says nothing and waits for him to cease his pointless line of questioning.
"Shall I kiss it better, brother mine?" Celegorm smiles more genuinely this time, holding his arms wide as though beckoning him forward for an embrace.
Curufin doesn't move, ignoring the sincere concern in his brother's eyes behind the casual mockery.
Celegorm shakes his head, resigned. "Alright, alright, no talking about your foul moods. What about our dear kingly cousin's, then?" He shifts in his seat, putting his feet back on the floor. "You know, many a time I found myself wishing he would stow it with his endless prating. But now that he has, I must confess I find myself mightily unsettled." Celegorm's uncertainty shows in his face, though his voice is steady and assertive as ever. "What do you think of it, brother?"
Curufin's tone is sharp. "I think we ought to watch him." The sudden undeserved harshness towards his brother surprises even himself a little, and he winces. He makes an effort to soften his voice. "You know the talents of Finarfin's children. He may have foreseen something. And it likely bodes ill, for as you said, in him such sadness is rarely seen."
Curufin looks his brother in the eye. "If some doom indeed approaches, whether it strikes our cousin alone or befalls us all, we must be prepared to fight it without hesitation. The house of Fëanor cannot afford to lose any more."
Celegorm appears taken aback for a moment at the urgency of his tone. Then his face falls, and his gaze turns to the ground. "In truth... I had wondered about it being foresight myself." He frowns and sighs.
There is silence for a moment. Seeing his brother's downcast demeanour, a faint disquiet rises in Curufin's mind, stemming from a tightness in his chest. He had intended to ensure Celegorm would be as watchful as he, so they would be of a same mind, ready for any approaching trouble. He had not meant to afflict him with his own terrible mood. Had he? Curufin bites the inside of his lip, grounding himself with the sudden pain.
Celegorm rises from his seat. Curufin looks away.
Curufin starts as his brother's hands land on his shoulders. He hesitates before slowly raising his head and meeting his gaze. To his surprise, Celegorm no longer looks perturbed, his eyes burning bright with their usual fierce confidence. And his voice, though quiet, seems to resound in the room. "Today could be a day like any other. Today could be the day our spirits flee our ruined bodies. We have known this since the day our Foe broke Formenos and cast us into darkness. We may not be able to see what lies ahead." He pulls the unresisting Curufin closer, hugging him to his chest. "But we will meet it together as we always have."
Curufin rests his head against his brother, but otherwise does not move to return the embrace. All thoughts flee from his mind.
Celegorm gives him a final brief squeeze, then steps back. Curufin turns, watching him as he leaves the room. Neither speak, as there is nothing more to be said.
But as the door shuts, the faint courage kindled anew in Curufin's heart is abruptly snuffed out, and slowly, terrifyingly, that thought returns with its grip like an iron vice, tightening around his mind and threatening to crush his spirit with its weight.
INCOMPLETE.
Another has taken the battle to Morgoth's doorstep and has done more to avenge Finwë and Fëanor than any of the sons of Fëanor ever have.
The shame and bitterness felt at the news of Fingolfin's fall strikes him once more with a vengeance. Curufin scoffs and folds his arms tightly across his chest. You have no answer. No justification.
Somehow, an idea manages to burst through into his paralysed mind, like a flame burning a hole through thick parchment. Reacting blindly to disaster in such a manner never works.
After Morgoth brought ruin upon the north, Fingolfin perished in his attempt. Vengeance will not be achieved by the sons of Fëanor throwing ourselves into our Foe's clutches alone.
After our father died, Maedhros brought an army with him. Yet even then he was defeated, left for dead on that accursed mountain. The Silmarils will not be retrieved by the sons of Fëanor bringing only what we can spare against our enemy.
We need strength.
I need to regain what was destroyed, before another disaster happens.
But how?
Who will help us? There are none willing. Not for this.
Curufin sinks to his knees. His eyes are shut, and his senses can barely tell whether stone or carpet lies beneath him.
...Nargothrond will not help us here. No matter how great our remaining influence, we cannot constrain them.
The dark weight in his mind is nigh overwhelming, and he does not move for a long time.
Finrod stands before his throne in the great hall, filled with the chieftains and people of Nargothrond. Curufin's eyes are fixed on him, searching his face. And though the king does not turn towards the sons of Fëanor, Curufin soon finds he cannot look away. He begins to feel as though he is the one being examined. The minutes stretch by, and at last Curufin is able to tear his gaze away angrily. None the wiser as to what is going on inside his cousin's head.
Finrod's voice is clear and bold as always, yet closed-off and guarded as it has never been before. "After the flames came down from the north, my brothers were cut off from the aid of all others and fell before the onslaught of our Foe. Many of you will recall our own march to the north. The battle turned ill for us and I very nearly suffered the same fate, sundered from you, surrounded and trapped in the Fen of Serech. I was only returned to you by the might and courage of the Man Barahir and his people of the house of Bëor. They rescued me and fought their way out, though they paid dearly for it with their lives. I gave my ring to Barahir and swore to him and his kin an oath of friendship and aid in every need.
"Now the time has come for me to repay my debt. Beren, the son of Barahir, has come to Nargothrond this night in great need, bearing the ring I gave his father. He asks for my aid in the task laid upon him by King Thingol: to bring the king a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown, in exchange for the hand of his daughter Lúthien. This task, in turn, is laid upon me by my vow to Beren's people. Therefore, lords and chieftains of Nargothrond, I must now seek your help in fulfilling that vow."
Murmurs fill the hall at the mention of the Silmaril. Curufin is dumbstruck. And Celegorm, eyes hard as flint, steps forward, drawing his sword and lifting it in Felagund's direction. "Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, or Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing in Arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the Valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of Fëanor's sons, if he take or find a Silmaril and keep it. For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends."
Curufin's eyes are on his brother, but even Celegorm's loud voice is drowned out by the burgeoning idea in his spirit, gathering all the weight and momentum of his dread-filled thoughts. We cannot constrain them. But we can warn them.
His mind latches onto the opportunity, aching to visit its Oath-driven torment upon those who would stand in the way of it. The hazy sight of the burning flagpoles of Rómenos against a darkened sky flares up in his memory. Hazy through the tears of a single ash-irritated eye, the other plastered shut by the blood streaming down from his brow. The screams of Orcs and Elves ringing in his ears. They shall know of the threat our Enemy poses to the careless.
Celegorm is now addressing the hall at large. “...and why should we follow one who, after impressing upon us the need to hide from the Enemy’s eyes with unceasing watchfulness and secrecy, would turn about and throw us all into his gaping maw?”
Finrod’s solemn expression is unchanging, though there is something stricken and pained in his eyes. The murmurs of the people have an increasingly uncertain sound to them. With perhaps some anger. Some agreement.
Why should we follow?
Is he not our king? We are honour-bound to aid him.
Curufin stares blankly up at his cousin. Perhaps there is a way to regain our strength. But it must be done—it must be done now. I must tip the scales in our favour. We need this kingdom, and these people, and turning them against their king is the only way to do so. When will there be another opportune time? I cannot wait for a future period of war or instability. If Morgoth continues his assaults upon our lands, the people may be too diminished by then to be much use to us. My brother and I may well be slain before then. And Felagund could easily outlast us, for his people will do their utmost to protect their beloved king. Has that not already happened? And those Men were not even under his direct command.
Celegorm turns to Felagund once more. “A people will risk their lives to defend their kingdom, but do not think we will risk our lives to see this kingdom destroyed! For what else could come of this quest? We have all seen the ruin of the north. We have all heard how the High King was slain. It is folly to think you could face the same foe and come away the victor.”
Celegorm sheathes his sword, then bows his head briefly before stepping back, his eyes still ablaze with impassioned fury.
Curufin remains where he is, by his brother’s side. The dreadful purpose of the Oath is a fire in his mind, and the sense of urgency has the sinews of his body tense as bowstrings. So be it. They will not heed Felagund’s words any longer. I will make sure of it.
His voice is soft and distinct, his expression almost calm, a stark contrast to his inward turmoil. His words echo amidst the mutterings in the hall.
“My brother and I are in agreement. The oath to Barahir cannot be fulfilled, for it will lead its keepers to torment, and you shall die for the sake of this Silmaril. For of the realms in the north, only two remain still: the rest Morgoth scattered like ash in the wind. Your people went forth then, as his eye was elsewhere. If we go forth alone, the kingdom will be laid bare. With Angband against us, our fortress will fall, the devouring flames leaving empty black stones, the wounded and weak slain and eaten by demons, all our works rent apart, and none left to make more. And if by chance you escape, you will do so alone, for your kin are hard-pressed to destroy their own foes. Your friends slain with cruelty, your captains made thralls. Your comrades have fled and will not heed your call. The wild lands without are filled with his spies, and wolves prowl about in the day and the night. Doriath’s doors remain shut to us all: even foes of our Foe are no friends at all.”
As he speaks, the words turn to ashes in his mouth. There is no subtle skill here, no careful moulding of their thoughts. No enjoyment, for this is no game of wits. The mutterings in the hall have long since guttered out. Replaced by a voiceless, palpable atmosphere of fear. Visible in every eye, every face. His design had been to stop them, and Curufin knows he has. But he has done so by destroying them.
He steps forward himself, at last, facing Felagund as his brother had.
“I can see your mind is unchanged. Your path set in stone. You will do this to your safe haven, for one Man’s sake alone. And there is naught we can do to halt you.”
And it is all too easy.
At this, as expected, the murmurs start rising in the hall again. The first voice is Celegorm’s, who gives a cold and knowing smile as Curufin glances back at him.
“Is the son of Finarfin as a Vala, to command us so?”
He is not as a Vala to command us.
We will not go.
There is no reason to follow!
It is madness.
The anger and agreement now drown out the uncertainty. The sound of rebellion rises behind Curufin almost as the roar of the tide.
Rebellion. ...Treason. A seed of doubt is planted in his heart. As he looks towards Finrod and sees his stricken face, it starts to grow. He is our kin. Should we repay him thus?
Then all of a sudden, it is choked out, strangled by the bitter weight rising in his breast. Long buried, but never quite dead, like a dormant mountain waiting to spew forth flame and ash once more. Is there not a treason more ancient? He is, as Celegorm said, the son of Finarfin. He may be a king, but he is of a younger and lesser house. By right, the high kingship over all the Noldor belongs to the house of Fëanor. These people and their realm were ours already. We are reclaiming our own.
And Curufin crushes the last of his own resistance, with only a little more trouble.
He shares a glance with his brother. Celegorm’s gaze reflects his. Cold, piercing and unyielding. Both return their attention to their cousin, expressions carefully neutral, hands resting casually on the hilts of their blades, one a sword, and the other an uncommonly sharp knife. Finrod is facing them, building anger burning behind his eyes, his countenance like ice. He is wounded, Curufin notes, idly, distantly. As though his cousin were nothing more than a hunted beast, felled by an arrow, soon to be mercifully slain.
Finrod takes the silver crown from his head and throws it to the ground. Though his eyes shine with unshed tears as he addresses the people, his voice is hard and unwavering. “Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond. Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence as a beggar that is thrust from the gates.”
In the unsettled hush that falls, a few footfalls resound, and a dark-haired elf of strong build steps out of the crowd to stand before Felagund, followed by a handful of others. No more than ten, in all. Curufin vaguely recalls the name of this minor chieftain: Edrahil.
Stooping, Edrahil picks up the fallen crown and holds it out. “Let this remain in the hands of a steward until you return to Nargothrond, and its people return to you. For you remain my king, and theirs, whatever betide.”
Curufin studies the expressions of Edrahil and his followers. Curious.
Anger, determination, righteousness, resolution. Even a hint of despair in one of them. Yet no visible fear. He narrows his eyes in disdain. What good will your loyalty do you? Your words are empty. None of you will return here alive.
Orodreth steps out from the shadows of a corner—Curufin had barely noticed him—and receives the crown handed to him by Felagund.
“Orodreth, my brother, you will govern this place in my stead. You are a true son of your father, and you will serve these people well.”
A long look passes between Felagund and his brother, before Orodreth bows his head and Finrod strides from the hall, accompanied by his ten remaining followers.
Hushed whispers begin to rustle through the assembly once more, like serpents in the grass. As Finrod departs, Orodreth remains standing before them, crown in his hands, face proud and unconcerned.
His gaze flickers briefly as he glances at Curufin and Celegorm. Not quite. Curufin smiles at him. Then turns away with a nod to Celegorm, who gives his cousin a friendly grin before following Curufin out of the hall.
“The wolves are multiplying in the land,” Celegorm stands upon the threshold, looking out through the open gates at the hills beyond Narog’s torrent. “What say we hunt them down? Huan could use the exercise. So could I, for that matter.” The light in his eyes burns hungry and eager, as it always does before a hunt.
Curufin, too, is gazing out at the lands, yet he does not feel half so eager as his brother. He feels wary. For his plan hinges upon the outcome of something outside of his control. Felagund has passed out of his sight, with his ten companions and the addle-brained mortal. Slain by Orcs? Taken by the wolves? Vanished from this land and devoured by the cruel north? Or... yet alive somewhere? Pleading the Man’s case anew in Doriath, perhaps?
The uncertainty grates on him. His words are quiet, for his brother’s ears alone. “It has been long since they have left, and no tidings have returned. Let us hunt for news of the quest, not only for wolves. Else our designs may never come to pass, nor shall we be able to found them in certainty.”
Celegorm’s expression closes itself off a little, though his voice is light. “Of course.” He turns to Curufin, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Yet let me tell you something myself, brother.” He leans down to whisper in Curufin’s ear, smiling broadly. “You worry too much.”
Curufin is jolted by the rush of air from the over-loud whisper. A hand over his ear, he frowns at his brother.
Chuckling to himself, Celegorm strides away in the direction of the stables, through the large archway in the wall to their left.
Curufin finishes packing his saddlebag, then turns his head as a large silvery-grey shadow passes quietly behind him. Celegorm looks up and grins. “Greetings, Huan.” He places a hand on the giant wolfhound’s head. “Fetch the rest of the pack for me, will you. Wolf-flesh is our quarry today.” Huan’s eyes sparkle, and he leaves as quietly as he had arrived.
Soon, a chorus of excited baying is heard, and Huan returns, followed by a pack of ordinary-sized wolfhounds. They circle around Celegorm joyfully, whining and snuffling, and he laughs, responding enthusiastically to their greetings in their own tongue.
The brothers’ horses huff, whinny and toss their heads, joining in the excitement. Celegorm pats his horse’s neck with affection, switching to horse-speech for a moment.
Curufin places a firm hand upon his own horse until it stands still as a statue once more.
As they draw near to Doriath’s eaves, Curufin slows his horse. Noticing this, Celegorm does the same. “Do you tire already, Curufin? My, you have grown soft in your advanced years.”
Curufin snorts. “So sayeth my elder.” He briefly scans the deserted shadows under the trees ahead. “We have another purpose in our hunt, do we not? Or has your ancient mind filled to overflowing with memory forgotten it already?”
Celegorm ignores him with dignity and halts by a tall tree with dark wood. “It is time to rest the hounds, I think. The hunt has been long, and the wolves many.”
The brothers dismount, and Celegorm gives the signal for the hounds to rest, before calling Huan to him. “Go search along the border of the forest. If you find signs of any person, or see or smell anything of interest, come back to me with it. I will sound my horn when we depart; return to me then if you find nothing.”
And away Huan speeds, swift and tireless as ever, while the other hounds settle down about Celegorm’s feet, panting.
Doubt settles in Curufin’s stomach as he sits in the shade of the tree. These wolves... they had only started increasing in the land after Felagund’s departure. And if his plan was to pass by his old watchtower, now the abode of the Abhorred One and his werewolves... well, there must be some connection there. Caused by their passage through that land? Or by their capture and death? Perhaps we should head north ourselves next. Yet we cannot venture too far, lest we risk our own lives.
The sun has grown warm, the air is still and silent.
Celegorm is sitting with his back against the tree, seemingly watching the clouds passing overhead.
Curufin finds himself growing strangely drowsy. He folds his arms upon his drawn-up knees and buries his face in them with a sigh.
There is a rustle and Celegorm’s voice breaks through the darkness.
“Huan? What have you... who’s there?”
Curufin raises his head. His brother has leaped to his feet and is staring at Huan, who appears to be accompanied by a long, shimmering shadow. Curufin blinks. It is not moving, and yet it somehow escapes his direct gaze every time he tries to examine it. He looks back at Celegorm, and through his peripheral vision, he notices the shadow is elf-sized, slim and tall.
His hand tightens around his knife hilt. A trick of the Enemy?
Celegorm frowns at Huan for a moment, then looks curiously at the shadow, his posture relaxing. “Are you then an elf-maid? Strange, for I have never seen anyone disguise themselves so well as you.”
Curufin rises quietly and stands by his brother.
The shadow makes no answer, and Celegorm folds his arms. “Yet it is also strange that you should wander alone in these lands filled with evilcreatures. My brother and I are princes of the Noldor, foes of Morgoth and hunters of his foul beasts. If you are not one of them yourself, pray tell us your name and purpose, for we may be able to aid you.”
The shadow flutters, parts in the middle and is thrown aside, flowing away behind a tall elf-maiden, with skin fair as flowers beneath the sun and short hair black and glimmering as a star-filled night. Her clear grey eyes are filled with sorrow, yet a spark of determination lights them from within.
Curufin is amazed, for he has not seen such beauty since his departure from Valinor. Who...?
His question is quickly answered.
“I am Lúthien, daughter of Melian. The one to whom my heart is bound, Beren, has fallen into grave peril. He departed upon a quest to deliver to the King of Doriath a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, for such was the condition for our marriage. He now lies in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where none will help him, and I can no longer leave him to face his fate alone. The Isle is far and I may already be too late, so if you will not aid me, pray do not hinder me.”
In the astonished silence, Curufin gathers his thoughts. I see no lie in her eyes... yet, she is the daughter of a Maia, and adept at concealing her body. What else might she be concealing in her mind? Does she truly journey alone, for love alone? Is she as foolish as the mortal, to think she can pluck a Silmaril from the Foe’s crown with less might than all the hosts of the Noldor combined?
Curious that she is so certain about the Man’s fate, however. Could she have learned this from her mother, whose power surrounds a wide land? Or from some ability of her own?
“I shall not fail to aid you, daughter of the Queen.” Celegorm’s voice interrupts his thoughts. His tone is changed, and Curufin glances at him. The hungry hunting light is back in Celegorm’s eyes, though his expression remains soft and serious. Curufin suppresses a smirk. That is the last thing on his mind.
Celegorm steps forward and bows his head briefly. “If you return with me now to Nargothrond, I promise you that you shall find help in your need. For did not Doriath help Finrod Felagund when he sought a safe place to build his hidden stronghold?”
Lúthien nods once, her voice soft. “I have not forgotten my kinsman and the friendship between us.”
She pauses, looking from one brother to the other. “...And if you so freely offer your help, I will take it, for all whom I thought I could rely on I have had to leave behind. My aid will come from an unlikely place, or so my heart tells me after this strange chance meeting of ours.”
Curufin makes no move, simply observing the exchange, his keen mind probing the new opportunity. So, she is acting alone. ...A stroke of fortune, indeed. Thingol’s daughter is at our mercy. What could we force the king to do, now that she is in our hands? He has shunned us before, but he cannot turn a blind eye to us now.
Celegorm glances at him, a question in his eyes. Curufin smiles back, for they have got what they came for, and much more besides.
Celegorm addresses Lúthien once more. “Then we shall tarry no longer. We shall end our hunt here and go straightway to Nargothrond.” He goes to his horse, removes the pack from his saddle and brings it to Curufin, who fastens it to his own.
Celegorm mounts his horse and holds out his hand towards Lúthien. “Here, my lady. You may ride with me.”
Lúthien looks uncertain, her gaze flicking between Celegorm’s face and the horse’s back. Curufin comes beside her and with a gentle hand helps lift her up to sit behind his brother. Lúthien hesitantly places her arms around Celegorm’s middle. For a moment, the light of the sun dims before Curufin’s eyes. He turns away abruptly and mounts his own horse, setting off at once. The soft thudding of hoofbeats and the rustling of hounds running through the grass follow behind him.
Curufin finds himself numbly gripping the saddle-bow with a hand. He gives a blank look to his palm. It was enough to leave deep marks on his fingers, and yet the pain is absent. Or runs too deep to be felt.
A long-buried memory of hunting in a different time and place, no doubt. He shakes his head and his lips quirk up in a silent laugh. As if it matters now.
The dark stone hall echoes dully as they pass through it. The hour is late, and Celegorm leads the way, accompanying Lúthien to the chamber where she may spend the night. Curufin and Huan follow behind. What Lúthien doesn’t know is that this chamber is one of Celegorm’s.
The halls of Nargothrond are not deserted. Guards march in pairs, servants and craftsmen hurry past on their errands. Yet none glance aside at the brothers. None take any notice of their new guest. There is no song, nor laughter, nor chatter, as there once used to be, and yet everything goes on much as it always has. Curufin has noted the difference, but it matters not to him. It serves his purposes well.
In the darkest hour of the night, Curufin pushes open the door to Celegorm’s personal rooms. The only light comes from a single lamp on the sitting room table. Celegorm is pacing, and stops, glancing up, as he notices his brother.
Curufin raises his left hand. In it, he holds a long, shimmering shadow, light and silken-soft, as if its thread truly were spun from shade. “I took it from her as she slept. She will not escape our eyes.”
Celegorm nods. “I have spoken to the guards. Our guest will not be allowed to pass Nargothrond’s gates, and none will be permitted to speak with her.”
His eyes glitter and he steps forward a pace. “Brother, we have with us another means of gathering might. If Lúthien and I are joined in marriage, Thingol can no longer shun our calls for aid. He must help the house of Fëanor, or else utterly forsake his precious daughter. We will rule him also.”
Curufin hides the shadowy cloak in a chest of drawers, then sits down at the table.
Opposite him, Celegorm smirks proudly and leans forward, his hands on the table. “And if the king of Doriath desires a Silmaril as his bride-price, why not give his daughter’s hand to one who has a legitimate claim upon them?”
Curufin sighs, not meeting his brother’s gaze. “Indeed, he has called this upon himself. And... I too have given some thought to this course of action.” It is a desperate plan. Yet these are desperate times, are they not?
He leans back in his seat, vaguely staring at a corner of the ceiling. “As for the security of our rule, it seems the lady has no knowledge of Felagund’s fate. Yet if the Man is in mortal danger, as she says, I do not doubt Felagund would have fought in his defence. So then...” Curufin shrugs, flicking his gaze back to Celegorm as the darkness of the room seems to encroach upon him. “He is dead. Or a prisoner himself.”
Curufin falls silent, keeping his eyes on his lamp-lit brother. This wretched darkness.
With a slight look of consternation, Celegorm reaches out to lightly touch Curufin’s hand, which rests upon the table. “...I will do as you think best, little one. How are we to proceed?”
Curufin blinks. Little one...? What do you perceive in my face that you think needs comforting?
Irritated, he folds his arms over his chest. His voice remains cool. “Tomorrow, we shall reveal to her our names and purposes. Thingol’s daughter shall be yours, without delay.”
*** Celebrimbor places the mended spearhead in the hands of its owner, Curufin’s most loyal captain and the chief of his troops. The elf bows his head solemnly, expresses his thanks, and speaks not a word more as he leaves the workshop.
Celebrimbor frowns. Again! Why does he no longer speak with me? The captain was a gregarious fellow, ordinarily. Over the years, he and Celebrimbor had grown so near in friendship that they called each other ‘cousin’ in jest. This present reluctance to share his company was truly disconcerting.
Celebrimbor removes his apron and hangs it up. There had been no argument between them, of that he is sure. He pauses. Indeed, he cannot recall hearing any argument between any two elves lately. Every single day, everything in the workshops goes smoothly. Too smoothly. No bickering over materials, tools or space. No criticism of each other’s work, but no praise, either.
This has been the case ever since Finrod left. Ever since Celegorm and Curufin spoke before the people, dissuading them from joining him.
What happened?
Celebrimbor feels his heart begin to pound in his chest as he ponders it. His skin grows a little clammy. Almost as though he is afraid. Given everything that has happened, he would expect to feel saddened. Grieved. Yet he does not. And it is strange.
Finrod had to abide by his oath, of course. I understand that. Fëanor, too, spoke before his people, swearing an oath and intending to fulfil it. ...Yet Fëanor’s people still followed him into danger, though the road was long and hard.
My grandfather... he had a way with words. I remember it well. Most of the Noldor left after hearing him speak. But not all.
Celegorm sounded much as he did, that night in the great hall. And my father... he did not repeat Fëanor’s words, but he made something of his own, just as Fëanor did. He intended to keep the people here. And most stayed. But again, not all.
It is clear, my father’s oath clashed with Finrod’s, and my father’s words overpowered his, leaving Finrod to go alone. The result is regrettable. And yet it was unavoidable, for I would not have expected anything less from either of them.
Celebrimbor sits on the edge of a workbench. The place is quiet. Deafeningly so.
While this all makes sense, something about it still doesn’t seem right. And it is not the obvious tragedy of Finrod’s likely death. For none appear to be grieving him. Except perhaps...
His gaze turns to the open door. Curufin has not come to the forge since that day, either. Celebrimbor is worried for him. For with his words, he sent his cousin out alone to die.
After a moment’s hesitation, Celebrimbor rises and strides out of the workshop. It’s all becoming too much. I fear for him, and I will not give way this time. I must try harder to find out what is wrong.
It is a definite problem, unlike his vague, nameless fear. Perhaps he will be able to do something about this one.
***
Curufin sits himself down on a couch in his chambers, facing the door. He has returned from helping Celegorm with his message to Thingol, informing the King of Doriath about the deaths of Felagund and Beren and of Celegorm’s intention to wed Lúthien.
He expects to remain alone for the rest of the day, Celegorm being otherwise occupied with winning over his future bride.
He will have nothing else to attend to. Orodreth is easily overruled during meetings with the lords of Nargothrond, for the rest of them all follow the counsel of the sons of Fëanor.
***
Celebrimbor opens the door and sees his father sitting there, seemingly deep in thought. Curufin’s posture is tense: he is on edge.
“Father?”
Curufin glances up for a moment, face blank as ever.
Celebrimbor skirts the low table and sits down beside him. “Father... what is wrong?”
Curufin does not turn to look at him. His voice is neutral. “What do you mean?”
“Something ails you. You do not join me in the forge. ...You have not made anything in so long...! Something must be wrong.”
Celebrimbor stops, frustrated at his lack of eloquence. I am no good at this. I have so many concerns I do not know where to start! There must be a subtler, gentler way of telling him what I have observed...
Curufin sighs softly, his expression unchanging. His fingers twitch. “True... I have not made anything of late.”
Celebrimbor tentatively places his hand on Curufin’s shoulder. It is difficult to keep it there, due to how cold and dead he feels. Like a stone covered in cloth. It is nothing like he remembers, and Celebrimbor’s inward distress grows.
Just as hesitantly, Curufin’s hand comes up to gently touch the fingertips on his shoulder. Then he appears to realise what he has done, and a shadow falls into his eyes as he returns his hand to his lap, his fists clenching.
Celebrimbor’s voice wavers a little. “Father... is it Finrod? Do you grieve him? Is it because of your oath, which forced you to send him away alone?” Of course, he was cold and troubled before then, too. Was it the Oath all along? Was it grief for our losses? ...I should have done this sooner!
Curufin does not move. His jaw clenches a bit, from the sound of his voice. “Yes. It is Finrod.” Ah. Celebrimbor removes his hand from his father’s shoulder, and leans forward to try and look at his face, his voice firm and earnest. “You were not at fault, Father. You could not have known this would happen. It is a strange chance that Thingol should ask for a Silmaril, and even stranger that he should ask it of a Man whom Finrod was bound to aid.”
Curufin is frozen in place, his gaze trained on the floor.
Unsettled, Celebrimbor impulsively takes hold of his hand. “Please, Father. You did not wish for his death, so do not blame yourself for his fate.” He pauses, taking a shaky breath. “...I fear you will give up on living. We have suffered enough already.”
***
Curufin tastes blood: the inside of his lip has been bitten right through. He cannot trust himself to speak or move, struggling against a nameless something swelling inside his chest, stifling his breath, threatening to burst his heart. He will not let it win. Neither can he abide this any longer. Leave. Please... leave.
***
Celebrimbor does not take his eyes from his father’s face, hoping for some change. Some response. Something familiar.
Curufin’s hand seems to take some warmth from his own.
Curufin’s eyes are shining, bright as new iron. Tears?
Curufin turns to face him at last, the iron-bright eyes piercing, cold, and shimmering with enmity. Celebrimbor freezes. He has never seen his father’s gaze turned with such hostility towards any Elf before. And it is directed at him.
His throat closing up with pain and confusion, he lets go of his father’s hand and folds his arms against his chest.
Curufin’s voice, by contrast, is almost lifeless, only coloured by the biting curtness of anger. “I have not suffered nearly enough to be swayed from my path. You need not fear for me. Begone.”
Celebrimbor starts up from his seat. The pain has grown strong enough to numb his senses. He turns away and walks out of the room, leaving the improperly closed door to slowly swing open behind him.
***
Curufin makes a noise of disgust and buries his head in his hands. He remains there for some time, mind empty and aching.
It’s over. Exhausted, he lays himself down on the couch, curling up slightly and facing away from the open door. A cold draught from the hallway blows softly against his spine, but he does not pay it any attention. The salty, sickly taste of his blood slowly ebbs away. I have not made anything of late.
It is true.
I have put aside all thoughts of crafting, while things still hang in the balance. While this stage of the plan is yet incomplete.
I shall take them up again later.
Sometime.
Burning anger rises in his breast, and a strange, faint whimper escapes his throat. ...Curse Finrod, curse Thingol, and curse his daughter for putting the lovesick mortal up to this!
He closes his eyes, his breathing quickening, the burning heat radiating out from his skin, which grows damp with sweat. But at least it will go some way towards the fulfilment of the Oath. By right the Silmarils are ours, and so is the kingship.
Curufin is startled into wakefulness as the door to his bedchamber bursts open, crashing into the wall. “Curufin! She is gone! Fled—I know not how... But Huan is gone too! I searched—there is no sign of him.” Celegorm stands just inside the threshold, restless, pale and out of breath. His expression betrays more shock than anger.
Curufin slowly sits up in bed, feeling oddly sluggish. He squeezes his eyes shut and brings a hand to his face. “Gone? ...The guards saw nothing?”
“No—it is no wonder, for her cloak is gone also. She could have passed through the halls unseen.” Slow realisation dawns in Celegorm’s eyes. “None but we knew where the cloak was kept. ...And therefore... therefore there is no doubt Huan aided her. And still aids her.” He opens his mouth as if to speak again, closes it, gulps, and turns away, striding back out in a hurry. There is a distant slam of an outer door.
Curufin gathers his thoughts from the lethargic sludge pooled in the bottom of his mind. She is gone. What will become of her now? Will she pursue her quest for a Silmaril? Will that cloak of hers be enough to elude the Enemy’s gaze? And Huan...
He raises his gaze. Wolves... the fate of Huan. If he goes with her towards the north, towards Tol-in-Gaurhoth... will he meet the mightiest one to ever walk the world?
Are they all running towards their bitter end?
His eyes move towards the door, where Celegorm had been.
Curufin pushes open the door of Celegorm’s bedchamber. He finds his brother sitting on the side of his bed, head in his hands and sobbing quietly. Without a word, Curufin draws near and sits beside him.
“Why do I weep?” Celegorm chokes out. “Just a hound, Curufin! Nothing... nothing more!” A frustrated growl tears itself from his throat and he sags in his seat, trembling, only the strength of his shame stopping him from collapsing entirely onto his bed.
Curufin does not respond, but reaches over and gently touches his brother’s head, stroking his hair once.
Curufin does not move from Celegorm’s side, even as his brother’s sobs subside and give way to pained silence.
He remains stock still, staring at the wall.
...Now what shall we do?
His mind feels too worn to consider any more possibilities, for the time being. Well. The kingdom of Nargothrond in our hands is better than nothing. We shall just have to wait and see.
We are only a single step above nothing. Curufin stands at the threshold of the gates, looking out upon the lands once more. We are sundered from the remaining realms: the sons of Fingolfin in the north and our brothers in the east. Our only link with Doriath has slipped through our fingers. Nargothrond’s growth stagnates.
He grits his teeth, frustrated. Would that our numbers could be swelled by some other means, as they were after the Sudden Flame. But in the wild lands outside our island kingdoms, there are none left who seek a refuge. None who know the way here, at any rate.
There is movement on the bank of the Narog. Guards returning. Curufin’s eyes widen. And with them...! Where did these Elves come from?
Curufin and Celegorm stand in the great hall, facing the crowned Orodreth and surrounded by the people of Nargothrond, the families of those who had died with Finrod, and the captives who had returned from the broken tower of Sauron. Broken by the power of Lúthien... Huan stands beside Celegorm, as though he had never left. As though he had always been faithful and true.
Curufin looks coolly at his cousin as the angry mutters circle about them.
They wished our king’s death so they could rule us.
They have brought doom upon us.
They are cursed.
They must die!
“I will not suffer them to be slain, treacherous though they may be,” Orodreth’s voice echoes in the hall, and the assembly quiets. “For the spilling of kindred blood by kin will only bind the curse of Mandos more closely upon us all.”
Curufin finds it strange to witness. How completely they all heed his authority. They are still fearful, and will heed anything that gives them some assurance of the future. But the tide has turned against us.
Orodreth looks directly at the brothers, his sharp, angered tone lashing at their ears like a whip. “Yet. Neither bread nor rest will I grant to Celegorm and Curufin within my realm. And this swear I, between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor, there shall be little love hereafter.”
Curufin finds himself mulling over the words curiously, as though he were a detached observer. A bodiless wraith, or one who is dreaming.
“Let it be so!” rejoins Celegorm, a menacing growl in his voice.
Curufin smiles. It is over, then.
He turns and leaves the hall with his head unbowed. A strange kind of anger burns bright and hot within him. Combined with the heavy weight of the unfulfilled Oath pressing down upon his mind, it gives him the impression he is a piece of heated iron on an anvil, pressed and hammered into another shape. Distorted.
He cuts the thought off and addresses his brother. “I will go and tell my people to ready themselves. I do not want to linger in this place. You do the same.”
Celegorm says not a word as they part, his eyes alight with fury. Huan follows behind him, at a not quite companionable distance.
Curufin finds his most loyal captain standing in the wide hallway, not far from the great hall’s entrance. He appears uncertain, almost rooted to the spot, as though he were facing some great trial ahead.
Curufin approaches, and the captain flinches suddenly as he speaks to him. As though expecting a blow. “Send out the word that we are to depart, and make your preparations as quickly as you may.”
The captain is silent for a moment, then takes a breath, his eyes only briefly meeting Curufin’s. His voice is remarkably steady for one with such... fear in his gaze. “I shall send out the word, but I myself will not go with you. And... if I am honest, I doubt many will. Why should we leave this safe haven to roam in the wild? To follow another lord with an oath to seek the Silmarils, though it bring him and his people into deadly peril? It was as you said: Finrod died, and his loyal followers with him. It is true the Abhorred One was defeated soon afterwards... but you will not have the friendship of Thingol’s daughter when you next pit yourself against the Foe. If you will pardon my saying so.”
Curufin feels his lips twitch upwards again. “Then I bid you farewell.”
A hint of confusion shows in the captain’s wary expression. His gaze meets Curufin’s a second time, he grows pale at whatever he sees there, and he bows his head and walks away.
Curufin does not doubt he will do as he said. He was always plain-spoken, after all.
The sea of fearful faces before him on that fateful night resurfaces in his mind’s eye. ...How many will come, indeed?
Curufin waits in the wide hallway leading to Nargothrond’s gate. It is deserted, save for Orodreth’s guards. He leans back against the wall. Still no-one. No sign of Celegorm, either. ...Perhaps he still tries to convince his own people to follow. Perhaps some will heed his words over mine...
The guards change. It has been long enough.
Curufin finally leaves the empty hallway. But where is Celebrimbor?
Curufin had not seen his son in the great hall. Perhaps he was unaware of what had transpired, keeping out of court business as he usually did. Searching a few of Celebrimbor’s usual haunts, he finds him in the smaller, private workshop near their chambers. He is sitting at a workbench, head bowed, apparently sketching some plans onto paper.
“Celebrimbor. We are leaving. Gather your belongings. Orodreth has pronounced banishment upon Celegorm and I.”
Celebrimbor does not turn immediately, his tone quiet and matter-of-fact. “I heard.” He takes a deep breath. “But I will not be banished with you. I will stay with our people.”
In the shadowed chill freezing his heart, Curufin’s breath almost stops. “They have abandoned us,” he hisses.
***
“They were abandoned first.”
Celebrimbor stands and turns to face his father. He has had a lot of time to think, ever since Sauron’s captives returned. He has spoken with people, observed them, spent much time alone in his thoughts, away from his crafts. He supposes he understands his father more, in one sense. But with what he has found... he knows something must be done.
“You must know of what I speak, Father. This fear... this strange fear, it lingers still. And despite the breaking of Sauron’s tower, not even a small measure of hope has returned to the people, though the once absent grief for Felagund has at last been loosed in our hearts. Fear pervades everything. It remains in every heart. It does not fade with time. You have done something to this place, and I would like to repair it, if I can. ...I know I am not Nargothrond’s maker. He is gone. Yet whether or not I am successful, I will remain alongside our people, who have come with us all this way thus far. They fought for us, and so we owed them our protection and goodwill whenever we could give it. They should not have been treated as mere tools in this manner.”
Celebrimbor looks Curufin in the eye. “And Father. Tell me what they say is not true. About Finrod. You did not want to betray him, did you?”
There is silence. The hard lines of Curufin’s face show nothing, and in his eyes can be seen no regret.
Celebrimbor lowers his gaze, the heavy weight in his spirit growing apace as he remembers that look filled with enmity. “Farewell, Father.”
Speaking not a word, Curufin turns his back and leaves.
Celebrimbor understands. If he ever saw his father again after this, he would not have anything to say to him either.
...If he ever saw— Looking at the back of his father's dark head, he has the sudden impression that some chance is slipping away. His eyes widen. ...Is this truly farewell, then?
***
As Curufin walks back down the empty corridor, he hears footsteps behind him, rapidly approaching. A hand lands on his shoulder, Curufin turns, and Celebrimbor throws his arms around him tightly.
After a moment, Celebrimbor stands back, hands on Curufin's shoulders. He looks at him, head slightly tilted to the side. His face has softened and his eyes are sad. Though Celebrimbor says nothing, Curufin is surprised to be able to see something evident in the entire expression of his body for once. It looks like: Take care of yourself.
Celebrimbor’s gentle grip loosens and he steps back.
Curufin’s throat grows tight and he tentatively raises a hand in farewell.
He breaks the eye contact.
And continues on his way.
His son follows him no longer.
***
Celebrimbor has returned to sit at his workbench in the forge. He vaguely observes its chipped wooden surface, pondering memories of a once close-knit family.
An aimless pursuit. But he will have nothing better to do today.
***
Curufin meets Celegorm at the gate. Both are armed and have brought only as much with them as can easily be carried alongside the necessary provisions for the road.
Celegorm has readied their horses, and Curufin fastens his two small bags to the saddle.
Celegorm’s voice is quiet, his anger spent. “There was nothing I could say to move them, in the end. My people will not come. It went the same way for you, I take it?”
Curufin nods, not looking up.
Celegorm frowns. His eyes widen and he whips around. “Celebrimbor! I forgot his horse!”
He stops and falls silent, for there is only an empty hallway behind them. Hesitantly, he looks at his brother.
Curufin feels ill. His quiet voice cracks in his dry throat. “He will remain.”
With a brisk movement, he mounts his horse. He takes a bitter last look behind him, down the familiar wide entrance hall, devoid of all those he had led to Nargothrond years before. I have broken them so well that even I do not know how to repair them.
The bitterness grows more acute.
“We ride north. Now.”
The sons of Fëanor fly out of the gate. And though they ride with all the fury of their unfulfilled vengeance, Huan still runs beside them with ease.
The light grows dimmer as they ride deeper into the Forest of Brethil. Curufin rides blindly, staring ahead through the trees, ever urging his horse to greater speed, despite the hazards. He ducks his head, the golden leaves of a low branch clip his scalp. A noisy shadow flutters across their path. Only a bird, but the horse threatens to flee. Yet Curufin holds it to his will, and it does not stray from their course. They leap over a great fallen trunk, and the light of the Sun beams through the thinned leaves above in orange and white speckles. Curufin blinks. One white speckle remains, ahead and to the right, between the trunks of tall evergreens. Not a speck of light. A face in the distance. A shadow beside it turns, revealing a second white oval. Two people.
He considers slowing his pace for a better look, but Celegorm’s trained eye recognises them at once. “Lúthien!” Shock and anger colour his voice.
Neither of the brothers say a word more, but Curufin finds himself following Celegorm as they change course, heading for the two lonely figures walking through the trees.
Curufin’s body tenses for action. The acrid bitterness seems to flow through his veins. If none will ally themselves to our cause... then... His mind clouds over with apprehension. She cannot escape us now. We have lost all. We will take what we can get.
He catches Celegorm’s eye. The brothers share a brief glance of agreement.
They come upon them from behind. Celegorm spurs his horse towards the mortal. Curufin turns his own aside at the last second, leaning over and catching Lúthien under the arms, lifting her to sit in front of him.
An arm wraps itself around Curufin’s throat, his head and body are twisted to the side, he sees the spiny green canopy, then the grass, and the air is knocked from his lungs as he lands with a heavy weight half atop him.
He takes a wheezing breath, tries to right himself and sit up, but is slammed to the ground again, his throat caught in a vice-like grip. The Man’s face swims into view above him in a green, light-speckled haze. How...?
Curufin pushes back against his assailant’s chest, but he cannot seem to put any strength into it as the edges of his vision darken. He vaguely feels his own arms fall back down, the Man’s face is swallowed up by the waving green of the sunlit branches. It grows colder. A gem, its green hue shifting and changing with the gleam of the light. The painful throbbing in his throat pulses ever more quickly against the cold steel band. The orb of the gem grows smaller, more distant, retreating further—always further—into the blank darkness. The horrible pressure in his head grows. A familiar voice shouts, cursing the foe. Father?
The darkness retreats. “...not slay him!” His throat is released. Curufin gasps. His sight returns, the image blurred at the edges. Lúthien stands there, sternly looking past him. He makes an attempt to lift his head, then abandons it, breathing heavily and half-closing his eyes against the glints of sunlight from above. The mortal bends over him again, and he feels his sword belt loosened and removed. A look of surprise crosses the Man’s face as he examines the sheathless knife which also hangs upon it. He then lays the belt to one side and reaches for the fastenings at the neck of Curufin’s mail shirt, untying them. Curufin tries to sit up, but the Man grabs him and rolls him over, holding him up with one arm around his waist and forcing him to bend down with his face to the ground while the mail shirt is pulled roughly over his head. The arm lets go, and Curufin falls to the ground again. He groans and this time manages to push himself into a seated position.
Gingerly touching his throat, Curufin glances up to see the Man still standing over him, and Lúthien standing by his horse, stroking its mane and quietly talking to it. He glares at her.
The Man stoops all of a sudden, grabs him under the shoulders and knees and throws him away from them. Curufin lands on his backside, the impact knocking the air from him again and sending shooting pains up his neck into his skull.
“Walk now back to your noble kinsfolk, son of Fëanor,” the mortal growls. “They might teach you to turn your valour to worthier use. Your horse I keep for the service of Lúthien, and it may be accounted happy to be free of such a master.”
Shame and hatred burning behind his eyes, Curufin chokes out an imprecation through the constricting ache in his throat. “...I curse you under cloud and sky. Go hence unto a swift and bitter death.”
Stars explode across Curufin’s vision as he gets to his feet, and he waits until they clear before turning to face his brother. Celegorm sits rigidly atop his horse, spear in hand, his face both livid and fearful, his chest heaving. Huan is pacing about in front of them, back and forth, not taking his eyes from the nervous horse. Celegorm leaps down as Curufin walks slowly towards them. Huan bares his teeth and snaps at Celegorm who drops his spear, glaring at the hound and holding his empty hands up.
Curufin stares at his brother in some disbelief. “Huan... he...”
“Has betrayed me,” Celegorm snaps, taking hold of his arm and leading him towards the horse, which has retreated further still from the great hound.
Curufin climbs onto the horse’s back with his brother’s help. He holds on tightly with his legs as Celegorm mounts in front of him, then wraps an arm around his brother’s waist as the horse turns, ready to ride away.
The Man pays them no further attention, turning away and returning to Lúthien’s side. Celegorm shouts after him. “You have no claim over our Silmarils. If you pursue them longer, death you shall meet, whether by our hand or no. May a cruel fate befall you and avenge my brother’s pain.”
Then he scoffs and urges the horse onwards.
Curufin cannot help but look back at the daughter of Thingol, standing there with his horse and Celegorm’s hound. Both bent to her will like the Mannish thrall. Shall she do this to us and come away unscathed?
A vicious impulse takes him, and he does not suppress it, pulling Celegorm’s bow from its scabbard upon the horse’s flank. He takes an arrow from the quiver on his other side, twists in his seat, nocks the arrow, draws, aims and looses it, his eye not leaving the unsuspecting Lúthien’s back.
Huan leaps, catching the arrow in his jaws.
Curufin grits his teeth and takes another arrow. This time, there is a slight hesitation as he sets it to the bowstring. Some fear or regret behind his unchecked anger. But it is not enough to overcome his strength or aim, and the second arrow flies true.
The mortal leaps in front of Lúthien, the arrow striking him in the breast. Huan springs forward, teeth bared and snarling, eyes fixed upon Curufin.
The horse lurches in terror, and Curufin clings to Celegorm with his free arm, still clutching the bow with the other.
Celegorm glances back briefly and does not rein the horse in. Huan’s pursuit does not abate, and they are forced to flee until they can see nothing but the deserted autumnal orange of the forest about them.
Night is falling. Curufin clings to Celegorm’s back, a dull ache still around his bruised throat. As they ride, the sky above them dims and greys. Shadows loom on either side. On the right, the northern eaves of Doriath, trees tall, broad, and old. On the left, the chill, threatening darkness of the dreadful valley, Nan Dungortheb.
They carry nothing with them on their lone horse but Celegorm’s gear and provisions for the road.
Curufin’s words had wrought them a doom as terrible as that of his forsaken cousin. He had lost them everything.
No cry of anguish nor scream of frustration will he allow to pass his lips. There is no point, there is no escape or release. Not yet, not for a long time, and especially not when he has set them all back such a long way.
Exhausted, he leans his head against Celegorm’s back, vaguely staring into the trees on his right. ...There is nothing to repress anyway. He can barely muster the strength to stay upright, much less cry out. His hold around his brother’s waist slackens.
Celegorm’s voice is rough, quiet and flat. “Do we need to halt?”
Curufin forces the words out in a cracked almost-whisper. “No. Get us out of here.”
As Curufin dwells further on their new situation, the world sways softly around him, the edges of his vision clouding over with white. His breath hitches, his legs grow slack, and he feels himself beginning to slide off sideways.
Celegorm grabs the arms still loosely held around his waist, holding him in place. “We are going to halt.”
Curufin does not mark the particulars of the spot Celegorm has chosen. He sinks to the ground and lies down, curling himself into a ball.
Celegorm’s feet come into his field of view. “...You shot at them. Did you hit your mark?”
“I hit the Man,” he responds dully. It is a faint relief, after all. The death of Thingol’s daughter by his hand would have had far-reaching consequences. And no doubt very few of them would have ended up in their favour.
Celegorm kneels beside him. “That is at least some vengeance for the hurt and offence they have caused us.”
Curufin feels his hair brushed aside, then the careful prodding of Celegorm’s fingers upon the back and side of his neck. “Turn over, Curufin. Let me see.”
Curufin turns his upper body slightly, looking past his brother towards the sky, and tries not to cringe as Celegorm examines the front and other side of his throat.
Celegorm gives a short sigh of relief through his nose, before moving his hands down towards Curufin’s collarbones and ribs.
At this, Curufin crosses his arms and curls into himself again, avoiding any further touch.
“I suppose I must assume you have no broken bones?” There is a sarcastic edge to his brother’s voice. Then it quietens. “Will you at least take a wet cloth to soothe the bruising upon your neck?”
Curufin turns his face away further, his cheek pressed into the soft, sparse grass.
Celegorm doesn’t insist and gets to his feet, heading over to take care of his horse.
The sky is black, but for the silver circle of the moon.
Curufin has not moved.
His thoughts are fuzzy and indistinct, his mind’s eye obscured by a woolly blankness, his mind’s voice drowned out by the empty crackling of flames. He is beyond worn out, he cannot think, yet he cannot sleep. So he observes his brother, sitting alone and upright in the darkness under the moon.
Celegorm keeps watch, his face still as stone, his posture taut. Daring anything to come near, eager to take out his rage on something.
Now and then, restlessness overtakes him and he gets up, pacing back and forth, staring into the blackness, first on one side, then the other, his feet not making a single sound, always alert.
But nothing ever comes. The night is empty as a dreamless sleep.
Curufin and Celegorm have been summoned to Maedhros’ chambers, alone.
Their eldest brother stands beside his desk, which faces the door of the study. He does not sit as they enter. He merely takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself, though his expression remains unmoved. He looks between the two of them.
“Now, my brothers. Yesterday I welcomed you into my fortress, bereft of all company save a single horse, and you, Curufin, with nothing left but the shirt on your back. You were both sorely wearied, and therefore I questioned you not and allowed you to rest.
“Since then, I have not heard any more from you, or from the scouts who watch over my lands. I had hoped you would bring your news to me come the morning, but you have remained silent and avoided me all day. Therefore, I must require an answer from you. How came this to pass?”
Maedhros’ gaze is piercing, searching, unwavering. But the grave urgency of his tone betrays a little of his true thought. His dread and concern.
Curufin lets his brother look him in the eye. The frayed emptiness in his mind is such that he knows nothing will show. Nothing will show? He does not know what he is trying to do, in truth. Is it a futile final effort to conceal his disgrace, or is he plainly revealing that he has no words with which to express what has happened to him?
At last, Celegorm speaks. His posture is tall and proud, his expression brittle and unconcerned, and his voice calm and sullen. He recounts the barest facts of the matter: the arrival of the son of Barahir, Thingol’s mocking demand, Finrod’s oath and its clash with their own, the rebellion of the people, Finrod’s departure and his death in Sauron’s dungeon, their discovery of Lúthien, their plan to quickly regain their strength by taking charge of Nargothrond and marrying Thingol’s daughter, her escape, the return of Sauron’s captives and their banishment by Orodreth...
“...and as we were riding through Brethil, we encountered Lúthien and Beren walking alone, and thought to take our vengeance and take her with us. The mortal threw Curufin from his horse and almost slew him, before despoiling him. Huan turned against me, and I could not get close to them. They let Curufin go, I took him beside me on my horse, he shot the Man with my bow, and Huan chased us away from them. Naught else happened to us, and we made straight for Himring.”
Maedhros’ eyes have widened over the course of the story. He clenches his jaw. “I see.”
He lowers his gaze, frowning, as though trying to make sense of what he has just heard. His expression soon darkens, and he looks directly at Curufin. “Explain.”
Curufin flinches. ...He certainly did not waste a moment, did he?
He shrugs and looks at the floor. Shame weighs him down, cloying and irritating. But ire rises in his breast, slowly piercing through his mortification like a red-hot knife.
“...Explain?” he says quietly. He raises his gaze. “What do I have to explain?”
His voice grows louder, sharper. “I could ask you the same, brother. Tell me what you were doing here all this time. With your fortress a safe haven, and all your foes defeated. I heard they fled at the very sight of you. What thought did you give the Oath, perched in your watchtower away from the rest of the world these past few years?”
His throat grows tight. “If you ever gave thought to how our oath should be fulfilled after such grave losses, I heard not a whisper of it, Maedhros. We were left to do it alone... to face it alone—!”
Why? Curufin questions himself wearily. Even as he continues. Even as each word leaves a corrosive taste in his mouth.
“Could you stay silent with another’s purpose to take a Silmaril ringing in your ears? Could you remain upright and unmoved under the crushing demand of the Oath, of our vengeance unfulfilled? Even as you know you will never have the strength to assail the Foe yourself, as things now stand?”
Stop.
“Or have you been doing so all this time? Keeping it all to yourself, all contained behind that inoffensive, blank face of yours, never leading your people astray, not even persuading Maglor to join you in your thoughtless, senseless endeavour... Am I just weak, Maedhros?”
He lets the question hang in the air a moment, chest heaving, before stepping forward, finger pointed at his brother, staring him in the face.
Curufin’s thoughts rebel dully. His mouth does not listen. “Or have you just resolved with your iron will never to lift a finger, letting all that belongs to our house remain in the grasp of Morgoth and our misbegotten half-cousins?”
Your accursed tongue will lose us another place of shelter.
A pink haze lies over his vision. His heart pounds strangely: its cadence slow and painful. “Damn you,” he spits, then tears his gaze away.
Celegorm is struck dumb. He looks between his brothers. “Maedhros...” His voice wavers, uncharacteristically soft. He seems uncertain. Or is he pleading?
Curufin backs off, turning to leave, but Maedhros grabs his arm and stops him.
His grip softens. “Curufin. I am not your enemy.”
Curufin does not struggle. He turns his face away. “Let me go, brother.”
Maedhros hesitates. Curufin knows he wanted to say more. But he listens, and lets go.
Curufin pushes the door open and steps out into the dark, cold corridor.
At the end of the passageway, he glances back. The doorway is a thin pillar of light in the gloom. He sees Celegorm and Maedhros now sitting at the desk. Celegorm is slumped face-down onto it, in mourning or despair. Maedhros places his hand on his shoulder. Their eldest brother does not look hostile, but grieved.
Eyes dry and burning, Curufin chokes back a sob.
He hurries down the stairwell, heading for the outdoors.
Curufin is grateful for his brother’s aid in their time of need. But above all, he is relieved Maedhros was able to see right through his words. For he knows, in all the world, there are none who can help him unmake them.
Curufin has found his way to Himring’s forges. He has not visited them in a long time.
It is nearing nightfall. The workshops are dark and empty, with dimming daylight coming through a couple of high windows.
He examines the furnaces, the anvils, the racks and boxes of tools, the chests and drawers stocked with materials. He nods approvingly. Then turns to speak. “Did you see...”
But no-one has followed him in. The empty doorway stands cold before him. Nothing more. Nothing...
He takes a moment to realise it anew. And all thoughts of the future fly from his mind.
Curufin’s breath catches. He stumbles back against the wall, his vision blurring. He sinks to the floor.
And though his cheeks are soon wet with tears, his chest is too constricted for him to make any sound at all.
Celegorm finds him in the morning, curled up asleep on the cold stone floor. The spot under his head is still damp.
Curufin sits in the workshop, holding a cut red gemstone. He slowly turns it over in his fingers, the light from above glimmering across its facets like little scarlet flames winking upon a sea of blood.
He holds it up to the light, a tiny blazing circle of stained glass, trapped in a black hand, framed in the white square of the high window.
He sighs and lowers it again, glancing to the workbench at his side. No, this won’t do.
He picks up the fine golden necklace chain which lies there. Small coppery pendants shaped like various strange beasts dance along its underside. There is something missing. I am sure it needs something set in the middle. A larger, more striking pendant. Yet it must not detract too much from the rest.
He stares at the necklace, immobile. Searching his empty mind for nothing. Again! I cannot see what would fit. Must this remain incomplete also?
He bows his head and beats his forehead with his palm. Dullard.
What has gotten into you these days? It is the same for this work, that work, and the other. All unfinished.
A few silvery notes waft in from the sunny courtyard. The lyre’s melody brings with it a contradicting memory. Well. There are many things I have finished. But they are the most lustreless and uninspired pieces I have ever laid eyes on!
The memory grows more insistent. ...To my mind, anyway.
Curufin remembers presenting Maglor with that very gift, just a few days ago. New strings for his long-disused steel-stringed lyre, and some metal finger-picks overlaid with patterned gold.
His eyes turn to the open door. He listens intently.
A Dwarf could have made them better, he thinks. The sound would somehow be sweeter and clearer. And that slight jagged metallic edge would no longer be heard.
Maglor had been exuberantly grateful... but that meant nothing much. Not if there just happened to be no-one else with the skill and knowledge for crafting such strings here in Himring.
A gentle humming from his brother’s voice rises to lie beneath the lyre’s tune, supporting it almost imperceptibly.
Yet... I do not wish to remain idle...
Curufin’s mind drifts away from the melody, searching for another way forward.
The sunlight upon the far end of the workbench has inched over to glint upon a piece of unshaped steel. Arms and armour. Those, at least, do not rely upon inspiration alone.
Curufin remembers his armoured mittens. They had saved his hands in the Dagor Bragollach, but had been damaged to the point they no longer functioned properly. In Nargothrond, he had never gotten around to repairing them.
And now... lost. They were in one of my saddlebags when we left...
A despondent mood creeps upon him. He decides he will not make them again. Ordinary reinforced gloves will be enough. I will never give up on my work of my own accord. I am Curufinwë: I cannot yield. But if my hands, in time, grow so ruined I can no longer keep trying... well, what does it matter?
He taps his fingers upon the bench, one at a time. ...A new knife, then.
He sighs and rises from his seat. At least I am now free to make things. Here among others who understand it, the burden of the Oath has lessened.
The music has stopped.
Curufin gazes at the unfinished necklace once more. Yet... am I free?
He shakes his head softly, and pockets it.
A shadow appears in the doorway. Curufin turns. It is Maedhros. He does not look particularly happy. “Curufin, will you walk with me for a moment?”
Curufin gazes at his brother, remaining motionless. And do they understand?
He nods assent, and follows Maedhros out of the forge.
They walk in silence for a minute or so before Maedhros speaks.
“Brother, I understand Thingol’s answer to our demand was regrettable, but your public vow to slay him and all his people upon our victorious return was... not wise. You know I aim to unite the peoples of Beleriand, not drive them further apart.”
“You think he would have consented to ally himself with us had I not?” rejoins Curufin. “I have not endeared myself overmuch to him or his daughter.” His mouth twitches wryly.
“Well... no,” Maedhros gives a short huff of what might be amusement. “But you must consider the impression it leaves on our other allies. If we cannot put aside our own grievances to face Morgoth as a united force, why should they do so for us when we have offended them deeply in the past?”
Curufin lowers his gaze, falling silent. The depressed mood encroaches further, in contrast with the strange new hope in his brother’s voice. What hope is there in the retrieval of a single Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, if it was not retrieved by us? There will only be more trials ahead, and we must be ready to meet them. No matter what form they take, ‘friend’ or ‘foe’. For neither one matters to the Oath.
“...I agree on the importance of facing our Foe united.” He looks sharply at his brother, an edge of flint in his voice. “But we cannot ignore the reality of our situation. It is foolish to pretend that nothing will come of keeping the Silmaril. Thingol is duly warned. And if he knows what’s good for his people, he will change his mind.”
A derisive smile grows on Curufin’s face. If he knows... I would wager he’s only survived thus far thanks to his Queen, the old fool. Does he even listen to her, these days, I wonder...?
Maedhros returns the sharp glance and says nothing, his silver eyes steely with their usual relentless determination. Curufin’s smile fades under the arresting gaze of his eldest brother.
“I...” His tongue fails him, and he cannot complete his thought. I am trying to warn you, brother.
You must be prepared for what you will be compelled to do, sooner or later. No-one gives up the remnant of the Light of their own free will. You know this.
Those eyes are bright, shining with a rarely-seen hope.
“I... ask your pardon, Maedhros. Perhaps it is best if I hold my peace for a time.”
A flicker of confusion appears in Maedhros’ expression. He frowns slightly. “And I ask for yours. Believe me, I know what troubles you. The Oath is no easy thing to satisfy. But we will concern ourselves with the third Silmaril only after we have reclaimed the other two, the ones in the hand of our true Foe.”
Then Maedhros stops. He turns to face Curufin fully. “Do I know what troubles you?” His voice has lightened and softened, and there is something sad in his gaze.
Curufin halts beside him. He looks up at his brother, remaining still in the face of the unexpected question. Then he smiles and shrugs. “Perhaps so.”
Silence stretches on. Eventually, Maedhros places his hand on Curufin’s shoulder. “Thank you for relenting. But I would not have you hold your peace entirely. If you have something you wish to say, come to me first.”
Curufin nods, almost bowing his head. But he knows he will leave the matter be.
Maedhros’ fingers tighten momentarily. He leans down and kisses Curufin’s forehead. Then smiles as he straightens up and turns away.
Curufin stays where he is. ...It has been long since I have seen him in such high spirits. I hope it lasts, for his sake. Even if blind, uncaring reality tells me otherwise, every day I rise from sleep.
As he watches his brother go, walking towards the wide door of the keep with purposeful stride and head held high, a very faint longing stirs within him. But he no longer knows what it signifies.
====
Curufin sits at the desk in his chambers, polishing his new knife. It glitters coldly in the light from the stained-glass window behind him. Finished. He carefully turns it over in his fingers. It is sturdy and cuts nigh as well as his old dwarf-made one. Yet it looks different, for crafting a new knife in Angrist’s likeness would only be mocking his old weapon and himself.
...He does not like this one as much. Angrist had a reassuring weight to it, a quiet coolness to the shine of its blade, and it would never slip or cut what he did not intend. This one is bitterly sharp, and though it has the superficial beauty of something well-made, it is horrible to look at. Its unforgiving edge would wound him easily if he were ever so slightly careless in wielding it. And yet... He very lightly taps the blade’s edge on the tabletop, leaving a couple of deep notches. He touches a fingertip to the bizarre marks. He supposes it suits him, whether he likes the knife or not.
The wind picks up, rushing around the keep. The sturdy window frame trembles a little now and then. Curufin sets his knife down on the desk, vaguely observing the stained-glass light flicker upon it with the movement of clouds across the sun.
A voice winds up through the floorboards of the room. The song is soft at first, almost hidden in the whistling of the wind and swallowed up by the great heights and weights of stone and wood forming the bones and body of the fortress of Himring. But it soon grows, its source moving gradually, until it echoes through the corridors and the very stones of the walls. It is Maglor, singing in the great hall far below.
Almost meditatively, Curufin rises from his seat and listens to the sad tale unfolding around him, pondering his brother’s craft. Maglor has always known how to find the best places to sing from, where the sound will echo and reverberate in just the way he wants, often carrying his voice further than his already impressive range and power allows.
Range and power built and supported by his tall frame and broad ribcage. Even the structure of his body is perfectly crafted in alignment with his talent. Much like... Curufin’s gaze drops to his hands. Well, much like Curufin himself. His arms and wrists are strong and sturdy, yet his fingers are long, slender and precise. He can tirelessly shape chunks of metal into mighty weapons with a hammer, he can unerringly set rows of miniature gems into fine wire coils upon intricate pieces of jewellery.
And like Maglor, he... cares for his craft. He instinctively knows how to make things look just right to the eye, feel just right in the hand.
Curufin looks at the unfinished necklace on his desk, the unfinished rings, remembers his latest gifts to his brothers, and runs a finger over the hilt of the knife he does not entirely like.
He also has an instinctual drive to seek perfection, to seek that unknowable something that shines out from a work in reflection of its maker. But he has not found it. Or if he has, he cannot see it.
But how could he not see it? He can see it plainly in the works of others! He can hear it at this very moment, in his brother’s voice!
Maglor has what Fëanor had, even if his works are not always visible to the eye. In each song, each piece of music, each poem, there is something that might capture the mind or directly resonate with the soul. It seems nigh effortless for him. Curufin does not know if Maglor has ever left any of his pieces to be forgotten, unsung.
Curufin remembers Fëanor had many unfinished works. His father went from one project to the next whenever his passion was sparked.
But even a brief piece of writing, dwindling into sparse notes near the end, or a lonely gem left aside, still rough and imperfect, had been admirable to Curufin. For he could sense the thought of his father behind each one of them, now become only a precious memory.
...Just as his time with his father is now only a memory. He had been so... complacent in his youth in Valinor. There had always been more time to perfect his craft. Always more time to explore, to discover, to search for things which might inspire him. ...Time so long it barely existed, until Light was snuffed out. Until his father’s life was cut short. The precious memories all too brief. And now... now Curufin must try many times harder, with his lessened strength, with his swiftly-disappearing time, accompanied all the while by his greatest endeavour and his greatest failure: his father’s dying wish.
Maglor reaches the poignant, shattering end of the tale, his voice reaches the resonant frequency of the walls, and all the stones of the fortress tremble at the sound, its beauty and exactitude far outmatching the very fury of the wind.
Curufin stands still, looking up, his mind mute, captured by the sound, a tension in his limbs seeming to stem from his heart.
The moment passes and he turns his head away. The song has ended, and once again there is only the wind whistling around the hill.
Curufin returns to his desk and gazes down at the knife. He thinks again. He did make it well. Perhaps his other works are not a lost cause. Perhaps he only needs a bit more time. And there is time, between now and— Ah. Curufin shuts his eyes and winces, that quiet, insistent thought tapping away at the inside of his skull.
The anticipation of potentially fulfilling a part of the Oath renders him restless every time the design of Maedhros, the league of the Elves, comes to mind. He cannot help but worry over it, endlessly prodding at his brother’s plans from every angle.
It is possible they will regain two of the Silmarils. But is it likely? He is not so certain. It was not with armed force that Lúthien and her lover entered Angband and won the Silmaril in Thingol’s hand. Indeed, if the songs tell the facts aright, it is clear the heavy hand of fate helped them on their way, and both good and evil worked in concert to bring a piece of the Light out of the shadow into which it had fallen.
Fruitlessly pondering this will not help me find my inspiration. We will go to war against Morgoth, whether it results in our success or our failure.
...Pointlessly searching for crafting inspiration will not help me in the face of my unfulfilled Oath. My success in this matter would be a small victory for myself alone. It would do very little in the grand scheme of things, and would require nigh all of my thought and attention. That, I cannot give. Not now... not yet.
The dull gloom descends upon his head. ...And if I did decide to lose myself in the search for a while, who is to say I will find what I am looking for? I have no past experience to guide me, for it is something I have never before achieved. Nor would it be a light-hearted venture. I find little joy in my craft, for the sharp edges of my words cut me also, and the works of my hands are dull, lightless, forgettable.
The memory of standing in a dark ship, a weighty voice in his ears, peals softly in the back of his mind. ...Perhaps that same hand of Doom is set against me.
He shakes his head. Anyway. Certainly nothing will come of me thinking in this manner.
Perhaps he will have to return to what has become the bulk of his activity lately. Mending what is broken. Offering his skill to all those who need it in this place. Repairing the works of their hands. Taking on the work another would have gladly taken on himself. If he were here.
No, Curufin certainly does not remain idle, here in his brother’s great fortress. But he is the most inactive he has ever been. And that grates on him terribly.
Curufin shivers in the warm, pleasant, summer morning. The silence of the woodlands of Thargelion is broken by the tread of many scattered, halting feet.
Pain lances up his left arm with every step. It had been beneath his notice in the furious rush of their flight, but now... it worsens steadily and surely as the grip of a vice, drowning out the clamour of his other bruises and gashes.
Caranthir and Amrod walk side-by-side in front of him, at the tail end of a small cluster of Caranthir’s people. Celegorm has gone ahead on one of the remaining horses to find a suitable place to make camp and treat their wounded; they cannot keep going forever.
Curufin does not know where the other three are. The brothers had drawn together as they cut their way out of the battle, but they had lost sight of each other as the fleeing host stretched out and scattered over the long journey from the battle plain.
Curufin falls slowly behind his brothers, no longer able to keep pace with them. He grits his teeth, his breath quickening. What...
With a faint noise of pain and frustration, he manages to pull back the left sleeve of his mail shirt. It does not go very far, but he blanches at what it reveals. More than one irregular protrusion under entirely discoloured skin. Broken.
He had instinctively used his arm to block sudden blows after the loss of his shield in the confused mess of the later battle, with enemies coming from all sides. How many times...? His head swims as he tries to go back through each memory. Better not to think about it.
Curufin halts by a tree, searching the ground with his gaze. Spying a stick which looks sturdy enough, he picks it up and snaps off its thinner end one-handed. He leans his back against the tree and places the end of the stick inside the sleeve of his mail, between it and the lightly padded tunic he wears underneath. He hesitates for a moment, then slowly pushes it in until it is held snugly by the mail near his elbow.
Curufin lets out the breath he had been holding, sweat beading on his brow, before pulling out the ribbon tying his hair back and using it to bind the other end of the stick to his wrist. As he pulls the knot tight with his fingers and his teeth, his sight darkens, his limbs grow weak, and only the rough grip of the tree bark stops him from sliding to the ground entirely. He takes a few shuddering breaths, the spots in front of his vision gradually fading away.
His trembling increases as he examines the makeshift splint. It will help keep his forearm stable as he walks, at least. Feeling cold and ill, he braces his hand on the tree and finds his footing again, ready to keep moving. His brothers are a fair distance away, and he doubts he will catch up with them.
As he takes an unsteady step forward, Amrod glances back and does a double take. His eyes widen and he nudges Caranthir, before hurrying back towards Curufin.
Caranthir is not far behind, only pausing to tell his soldiers to halt.
Amrod looks Curufin over anxiously. Curufin’s vision is starting to blur, and he turns his face away, panting softly. There is the weight of a hand on his shoulder. Caranthir is in front of him, his voice quiet. “Where is it you are wounded, Curufin? ...Is it survivable?”
Curufin feels too sick and out of breath to speak. He holds up his splinted arm in response. Amrod gently takes hold of the hand to inspect it, but even the slight straightening of his fingers in his brother’s grasp has Curufin twitch away with a sharp gasp.
“I’m...” He gulps, shuddering. “I’ll be alright. Just broken. Keep going.”
Caranthir’s expression is motionless and strangely distant, though his gaze remains on Curufin’s face. He passes an arm under Curufin’s right shoulder. “Lean on me. It would only be more work for the rest of us, should you faint and wound yourself further.”
Caranthir falls silent as they resume walking together. As they rejoin the small group, he merely nods once at his soldiers, and their slow march continues.
He is angry, Curufin can tell. But in the eyes of the most forthright of Fëanor’s sons there lies pain so deep that, for once, it cannot be expressed.
Curufin tightens his hold on Caranthir, to comfort him a little, as much as to support his own unsteady limbs.
“There... I think they are over there.” Amrod’s soft, urgent voice breaks Curufin out of the vague pained stupor he had fallen into.
Caranthir slows his pace, and Curufin looks in the direction Amrod is pointing. There appear to be some boulders clustered among the trees ahead and to their left, but everything beyond his immediate surroundings is curiously blurred.
Caranthir’s voice is low. “Where? I cannot see anyone. Is it Amras?”
Amrod nods assent, still searching beyond the boulders with his gaze. “Amras is that way somewhere. His presence is very faint. I hope we will find Maedhros and Maglor with him.”
He moistens his dry lips and turns back to his brothers. “I fear for him. I don’t think he is well. I cannot hear his thoughts. Though it may simply be that we are still too far apart.”
Caranthir tells his people to follow Amrod’s lead.
With a last concerned look at Curufin’s face, Amrod gently pats his shoulder before making his way to the front of the group.
The soil is dark and soft in the shade of the boulders, and there are many fallen branches from the tall trees above. One of them trips Curufin and Caranthir stops him from falling, with a grunt of pain of his own.
“Sorry, brother.” Curufin’s voice comes out in a dull whisper.
Caranthir shakes his head, groaning softly. “Ah... My ribs were cracked anyway. ...No great harm done.”
Curufin cannot repress a sudden bout of chuckling, and struggles not to lean too heavily against his brother.
“...What?” There is a hint of a confused smile in Caranthir’s tone.
“...T-talking about yourself... like an old piece of pottery. Hit my funny bone.” Curufin shakily raises his left arm a bit, grinning like a drunkard.
Caranthir trembles, his breathing growing ragged as he struggles not to laugh himself. “Curse it all, Curufin. ...Not the time for your... witless jokes!”
“Precisely the time for it... dear brother. I’ve got... nothing left.”
“I will drop you, Curufin, if you keep this up—”
Curufin’s wheezing laughter has taken on a convulsive quality, almost akin to sobbing, though he smiles still.
Caranthir comes to a halt. He hugs Curufin closer with his supporting arm. “Peace, brother.” His voice sounds grave once more, with a tinge of alarm. He lowers his head and gently rests it against Curufin’s. “We have not yet had time to mend,” he murmurs.
Curufin shuts his eyes, his breathing eventually growing easier. Caranthir straightens, and steps forward once more, prompting him to keep moving.
They have only gone a few more paces when there is a cry from the front of the group. Amrod’s voice. The soldiers halt. Curufin does not need to crane his neck to see what it is, as the newcomer stands head and shoulders above the rest. It is Maedhros, pale and alone, walking slowly towards them.
“Let us through!” Caranthir calls roughly. The elves in front of them part, and Curufin’s breath almost stops.
Maedhros is carrying Amras, his left arm cradling his shoulders and his right supporting his legs. Amras’ eyes are closed and he is unmoving. There are bands of torn cloth tied about his left shin, which is dyed entirely red with blood from knee to ankle.
Curufin does his best to keep up with Caranthir’s quickened stride. Maedhros comes to a halt as they reach him. Amrod tentatively reaches out to stroke his twin’s hair, his eyes wide and terrified. Caranthir, too, examines the wounded Amras, stony-faced, with a slight thoughtful frown.
Curufin sways on the spot, his light-headedness increasing at the upsetting sight of his little brother in such a state. He looks up at his eldest brother instead.
Maedhros is breathing heavily, his expression immobile, not taking his eyes from his unfortunate burden. His posture is stiff and his face colourless: no doubt he has suffered wounds of his own.
“I suggest we fashion a stretcher for him,” Caranthir speaks firmly, with a hint of underlying frustration. “I hope you are not so exhausted you can no longer walk yourself. We were hard put to find a horse for Celegorm to scout the land ahead with. There are not many left among the people nearby, and all are being used for those unable to walk, or to carry gear.”
“There is no need.” Maedhros’ fingers tighten about Amras’ shoulder. An odd, stubborn expression comes over his face, though his grey eyes remain blank and shuttered.
Curufin feels Caranthir stiffen with annoyance beside him.
“Let us keep moving, Caranthir,” Amrod intervenes, glancing briefly up at Maedhros. “The longer we wait here, the swifter our strength to keep marching will dwindle.”
Caranthir sighs deeply, the end of it cut off by a pained gulp, then calls out to the soldiers behind him. “We keep marching. Turn back to the south-east, following Lord Celegorm’s path.”
The brothers march as a group, at the head of their small band. Maedhros sets the pace, and to Curufin’s surprise, they appear to be moving faster, gradually overtaking the other groups dispersed among the trees.
No, Curufin knows he is moving faster. Some new purpose or determination has strengthened his limbs, even cleared his sight a little. He glances to his left, where Maedhros walks beside him. The previously obvious strain of carrying Amras has all but vanished, their brother appearing to weigh no more than a child in his arms. In Maedhros’ eye, a crescent of white light shines, gleaming at the base of the ordinary silver. It appears like a sliver of a bright lamp beam beneath a dark cover, so distinctly does it contrast with the ever-present light of Valinor.
Curufin wonders at this as he returns to staring at the sunlit woodlands ahead. Such is his strength of spirit...
Ahead, soft hoofbeats.
Celegorm comes hastening back through the trees. He brings his horse to a halt as he spies them, clear surprise on his face. “Brothers! You have come far!” He pauses suddenly as his gaze meets that of Maedhros, and instinctively gives a short bow of his head before continuing. “I have found a good place to make camp, yonder.” He gestures back the way he came. “It is not far now. A kind of vast, shallow dell, with a clear stream through it.” His gaze lingers worriedly on Amras for a moment, before he turns his horse to lead the way.
Curufin feels his strength beginning to wane again as he treads down the gentle grassy slope into the dell. Caranthir beside him also breathes more heavily, and the supporting arm at his back trembles now and then. Maedhros’ footsteps thud into the ground irregularly, his stride no longer light and even.
Ahead of them, Celegorm dismounts and entrusts the tired out horse to one of the soldiers under his command. Already some of their people have trickled down into the dell, and a few tents have been unrolled, ready to be set up.
Celegorm removes his cloak and spreads it out in the shade of a tree. He looks back at Maedhros. “Set him down here. He should be seen to at once.”
Caranthir leads Curufin to the tree. “Here, brother. Lean yourself against this, if you need it. I am wearied.”
Curufin leans back against it, taking the pressure off his feet, yet he does not dare to sit down, for he fears he may not be able to get up again if he or another has need of it. He rests his head against the trunk and tries to catch his breath.
In front of him, Maedhros kneels, the movement controlled at first, but his strength wavers halfway through and his knee hits the ground at almost full force. Curufin winces.
Maedhros gently lays their younger brother down on the cloak. Amras stirs, and his eyes crack open for a moment, before closing again. Maedhros’ fingers leave a final comforting squeeze on his little brother’s shoulder, before their grip slackens, his head bows, and he collapses beside him.
Celegorm is at his side at once. He turns Maedhros onto his back—his eyes are partly closed and entirely unconscious—and pulls apart the damaged fastenings at the neck of his mail. Celegorm gasps. Curufin’s eyes widen. Caranthir curses, throwing down the shield he had unslung from his back.
A long shallow slash wound is revealed, streaking diagonally across the front of his neck. It still seeps blood a little, drop by drop.
“Caranthir, help me with his mail,” Celegorm is already undoing Maedhros’ sword belt. “I fear this is not the only wound.”
One of Caranthir’s men, a healer, has approached, and Caranthir bids him tend to Amras, before kneeling beside Maedhros himself. Amrod shoots one last anxious glance at his twin before joining them.
Celegorm cradles Maedhros’ upper body, and Caranthir lifts his lower half, allowing Amrod to slide his mail shirt up past his waist and, with a little more difficulty, pull it over his head by raising his arms and tugging at the sleeves. Caranthir moves over to help him with this, as the mail is strangely stuck around his torso.
Curufin watches them, then looks down at his splinted arm. A wave of numb despondency comes over him. He manages to crouch with his leaden limbs and sits down heavily. If I no longer have the strength to stand after this, it matters not. I am no use to them anyway.
Curufin wonders distantly if Maedhros will die: the entire front of his tunic is revealed to be soaked through with the blood from his slashed throat. The skin beneath is bruised and battered, and according to the mutterings of Caranthir and Celegorm, the mail had been forced into his body in several places, especially at his back where he could not defend himself.
Amrod and the healer are quietly conversing. Amras’ quilted leggings have been removed, and there is a fresh pad of cloth tightly bound to the side of his shin, near the knee. Amrod covers his twin with his cloak and heads off in the direction of the stream, while the healer moves over to take care of Maedhros.
With an effort, Caranthir rises and looks around, grimacing in pain. “Look at them all, milling around like dust before the wind. We need some semblance of order if we are going to ensure everyone has meat, some form of shelter, and protection from potential assault. By your leave, Celegorm...?”
Celegorm raises his hands. “Arrange this camp however you like, brother. It is plain you will not be able to rest until it is done.” He gives him a pointed stare. “Do rest once it is done.”
Caranthir nods, and directs one of his men to stay there, in case the brothers need an additional helping hand. The rest of his small group of soldiers follow him towards where the majority of the new arrivals are congregating.
Celegorm does not rise, but shuffles over to sit in front of Curufin. His mouth twitches up briefly, but his eyes are darkened. “You look worse than I left you, little brother. Where are you wounded?”
Curufin gestures towards his left arm, which hangs strangely at his side, the elbow bent even when relaxed. “My forearm is broken. I have made a kind of splint for it, so it pains me less. Apart from that, mere cuts and bruises. How fare you yourself?”
Celegorm’s face falls, and he says nothing as he ever so softly runs a finger over Curufin’s wrist and the end of the stick protruding from the sleeve of his mail. Curufin makes a faint noise of discomfort: even the surface of his skin has become oversensitive, wishing to protect itself from further injury. Celegorm stops, frowning. He clenches his fist and shrugs with his left shoulder only. “Like as not, I have done something to my right shoulder or collarbone, stopping the charge of some brute with my body. But though it smarts dreadfully, it does not restrict my movement.” He smirks. “The brute came away worse.”
Curufin merely gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. He feels too wearied to speak, and his vision is clouding over at the edges once more.
Amrod returns with his water-skin filled, and sits down beside Amras. He supports his twin’s head with a hand, and slowly gets him to drink from it, a little bit at a time.
Celegorm observes them, then gets to his feet with rather less than his usual vigour. “I will get us some fresh water also. I am entirely parched.”
Curufin turns his face away from the water-skin Celegorm is holding out before him. He feels too ill to want to drink, and he no longer has the strength of will to move his aching limbs.
“Curufin, cease behaving like a child and take it. You look half-dead, and I’ll be damned if I let you go all the way.”
Celegorm takes hold of his uninjured hand and closes it about the neck of the skin. Curufin looks down at it doubtfully for a moment, before making an effort more of the mind than the body and lifting it to his mouth. Celegorm helps support the water-skin as he drinks.
As Curufin sets the water-skin down by his side, the fog his thoughts are lost in begins to lift. He unquestioningly accepts the dried meat and biscuit Celegorm offers him, and the brothers eat in silence, side by side.
They remain sitting in silence, watching as the healer finishes binding the last of Maedhros’ open wounds. Caranthir’s soldier removes his cloak, folds it up and places it onto a large stone. The healer helps him roll Maedhros onto his side, resting his head upon the stone.
Celegorm shifts and Curufin looks at him. His brother is searching their surroundings with his gaze, appearing restless once more.
“Have you seen Maglor of late, Curufin?”
“Not since we fled the field.”
Celegorm pauses, biting his lip and staring ahead. Then rises all of a sudden. “I am going to look for him.”
Curufin glances aside at his wounded brothers, and something twists in his chest. Would that I could wish them better. For there is nothing more I can do. He looks back up at Celegorm. “I will go with you.”
Celegorm frowns. “Do you feel able?”
Curufin holds out his right hand. “I reckon I do. Help me up, brother.”
Celegorm grasps his hand and pulls him to his feet. Curufin nods. “I do not feel so ill. Eating helped a little. And I do not wish to idle in my restless thoughts upon a sickbed.” He glances up. “Or, well... under a sick-tree.”
Celegorm snorts, rolling his eyes, though the hint of a grin shows itself. “Plainly, you are on the mend. Come along then.” He turns his back and stalks off towards a small but growing cluster of tents, muttering “...sick-tree...” under his breath.
Curufin follows. Although he is in pain and still feels uneasy, his steps are sure and he no longer trembles.
Curufin and Celegorm ride through the trees at a slow and steady pace, searching the wide woodlands on either side for any sign of life.
Caranthir had not seen Maglor either, nor heard any news of him. He had found horses for them and advised them to return before sundown, whether Maglor was with them or not.
All they had found so far were a few more straggling groups of their people, including some of Maglor’s soldiers. They had pointed the soldiers towards the camp, but had gleaned no news of their brother.
The land slopes downwards, the soil grows darker, softer and rockier. The trees, too, are darker, their dried needles carpeting the ground and further muffling the horses’ hoofs. The song of water ripples and rustles nearby. The brothers come across a spring, the silver stream overflowing its nest of boulders and rushing downhill to join the larger stream running along the bottom of the valley.
As they pass over the trail of water, a faint sound wafts up from the valley below.
The brothers halt. Curufin listens.
Ever cursed be the hands of misery
No reward shall they gain in their treachery
Alas, my sword has failed me
Celegorm leads the way downhill. The trees thin as they draw nearer to the valley floor. The sun glints upon the water below, transforming it into a worm of bright gold, cut at uneven, shifting intervals by dark trunks, strange rocks, and...
“There!” Celegorm points.
A figure walking alone, its movement halting and laboured.
“Maglor!” Curufin calls out.
The figure stops, falling silent. It turns to face them.
As they ride towards him, Maglor remains where he is, unmoving. He still holds his sword in hand. It is coated with red and black blood, and his arm is drenched in the same all the way up to the elbow.
Curufin slips down from his horse, and hears Celegorm do likewise. He briefly looks Maglor up and down as he approaches. No severe wounds or breaks in his armour are immediately visible. Curufin hesitates before placing his hand on his shoulder. Maglor is looking down at him, the light in his eye cold and somewhat feral.
“Maglor, come with us. We have made camp.”
Maglor says nothing.
Curufin has never seen him quite like this before. It disconcerts him. He tries again.
“Our brothers are all accounted for, and they live yet, though Amras and Maedhros have suffered grievous wounds.” He puts a little more pressure on Maglor’s shoulder. “Come, brother, I will take you on my horse. You need walk no longer.”
Maglor does not move.
Curufin searches the strange, stone-cold face anxiously. He sighs in frustration, glancing aside at the equally confounded Celegorm. Perhaps some tears would have come to his eyes, were they not so dry and sore from the heat, dust, and lack of water.
Maglor stirs under his hand. Curufin looks up and steps back. Maglor does not return his gaze, but stiffly lifts his sword and puts it through a loop in his belt, to hang by his side. He slowly uncurls his fingers from it, the dried blood having well-nigh glued his glove to the hilt. He follows Curufin wordlessly back to his horse. Curufin accepts Celegorm’s help to mount the horse, then waits for Maglor to get on behind him. There is a stifled groan of pain from his brother as Celegorm helps him up in turn.
Panting with exertion, Celegorm leans his head against his own horse for a moment, before mounting it. Maglor’s arms are tight around Curufin’s middle as they slowly climb up the slope. Celegorm stays close by on their left side.
They ride in dead silence, all the way to the camp. Even the wind is stilled, and no living sound is heard under the bleak midday sun, apart from the horses’ hooves.
Upon returning, they find a row of three tents set up by the tree, and no sign of their wounded brothers. Caranthir comes out of the rightmost tent, looking rather cleaner than he had been, his armour removed and his wounds bound. He nods and sighs in relief as he sees them. “Good. You have found him.” He glances back at the tents. “I am afraid we will have to put up with cramped quarters for now. Maedhros is in there,” he points at the tent in the middle, “and I will share Amrod and Amras’ tent.”
Celegorm dismounts, stumbling slightly on his way to help his brothers down from their horse. Maglor lets go of Curufin, who swings his leg over the horse’s neck, loses his balance as he makes to slip down from his seat, and lands with an ungraceful thud, jarring his broken arm. Celegorm catches hold of him. Curufin leans against his brother, gasping in pain, Celegorm’s firm grasp preventing him from collapsing.
He vaguely hears Caranthir speak.
“...three need to... healer...”
And Amrod.
“Maglor, come...”
Someone steps in front of him, blocking out the sunlight. A hand lightly takes hold of his shoulder, a forehead briefly touches his own.
A wisp of wind as the presence draws back.
“...Thank you, brothers mine.”
The voice is Maglor’s.
As the sun sets, a cool breeze rustles the opening of Curufin and Celegorm’s shared tent. Curufin is alone, lying on a low bed, his left arm in a sling. He feels himself growing more alert, just as the twingeing, throbbing pain slowly returns to his arm. With a sluggish effort, he sits up. The bit of medicine they had eventually found for him must be wearing off.
He realises he has not yet properly examined the healer’s work. He peels back the sling’s fabric and inspects the new, more comfortable splint: two long pieces of wood on either side of his forearm, bound tightly to it at intervals. The protective bandaging between the splint and his skin is light, to account for swelling.
Curufin glances away, suddenly wishing to occupy his mind with something else. But there is nothing else to be done. He does not want to leave his tent. He had thought he would feel better after the resetting of his broken bones, but in some ways he feels more ill. ...It is perhaps no surprise.
The bones of his forearm had been fractured in five places, and, as it turned out, his elbow had partly come out of joint.
Curufin trembles and gulps, burying his face in his palm.
The tent flap is brushed aside and the light brightens. Curufin looks up. Maglor has come to see him, bearing a small crystal lantern, which he hangs upon one of the tent’s supports.
Maglor sits down upon the section of log serving as a small table between the two narrow beds. He winces and sighs, before addressing Curufin. “How are you faring, brother? I see you are well enough to sit unaided.”
Though it sounds tired and pained, Maglor’s voice has regained its usual warm melody, and he no longer resembles the creature of stone found by the golden water.
Curufin evades the question, feeling like a clay jar perched upon a too-narrow ledge. One wrong step and...
“I am faring well, considering.” He gestures briefly at his sling. “The healer said I would be able to use it again, in time. What about you and Maedhros?”
Maglor tilts his head slightly. “Well... That is good.” The faintest smirk touches his face for a moment.
“Maedhros will live, of that I am sure. He awoke while my wounds were being seen to, and told me with his glance to remain silent, not wanting to draw the healer’s attention away from me. We then talked from time to time while I rested. He was a comforting presence to me: a sign his spirit is still closely knit with his body.”
Maglor takes a deep breath, his gaze flickering. “My own body is less troubled than my spirit, in truth. For this reason, I have come to speak with each of my brothers, before the night falls.”
His smirk returns, broader this time, a spark of mirth lighting his eyes. He reaches out and strokes Curufin’s cheek. “That’s right, little brother. I have come to tuck you into bed.”
Curufin huffs in amusement, before looking down at his lap. “How are the others, then? Have you seen them already?”
“Indeed I have. Amras did not say anything to me, but he is awake. Amrod spoke for him. He is ill, but no worse, and only wants rest. Caranthir is fast asleep already, sitting up, for his ribs pain him too much to lie down. All the same, I thanked him and bid him good night. Were it not for his efforts, we would all be sleeping under the stars tonight, like as not.”
There is a moment of silence.
“And now.” Curufin feels Maglor’s gaze placed sharply upon him. “I will return to the question of how you are faring, Curufin. You evaded me with rather less than your usual wit, and this, I must confess, concerns me most of all.”
Curufin can practically hear the twinkle in his brother’s eye through his voice, and cannot decide whether to feel amused or irritated.
He turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you come to me searching for more wit? It is plain you have enough of your own.”
Maglor exaggeratedly represses a wince and leans forward, bringing Curufin into a warm embrace. “I assure you, whatever passes for ‘wit’ in that head of yours, I want not a whit of it.”
Curufin chuckles, head resting against his brother’s shoulder.
Maglor continues quietly. “You will not be able to practise your craft for some time, with your arm as it is. This surely bothers and frustrates you.”
Curufin withdraws from the embrace and shrugs. “I am in no rush. There will only be a lot of repairing to attend to first, in any case.” He gestures towards the cleaned weapons laid upon Celegorm’s bed. The sword blades are notched from the long battle. “Broken arms won’t repair themselves. Unlike broken arms.”
Maglor scoffs at the joke. He looks somewhat sceptical, but does not press the issue further. For which Curufin is relieved.
Maglor glances over at the unoccupied bed, frowning. “Where is Celegorm? I have not seen him at all since you brought me here. He did not come out of this unscathed. He should be resting.”
Curufin looks at the opening of the tent, which still flutters a little in the evening breeze. A couple of low campfires flicker orange in the dimness outside.
“After his wounds were treated, he insisted on remaining by my side while my arm was being... straightened out. He left not long afterwards, and I have not seen him since. He said something about foraging, I think. It is true we are lacking in medicine.”
He turns back to Maglor. “I cannot say for sure, as my thoughts were not exactly clear and put together at the time, but... mayhap he was also upset by it. If that is the underlying reason for his absence, he will return once his tumultuous emotions are spent.”
Maglor raises his eyebrows, his words rendered even more sarcastic by the complete sincerity of his tone. “Nay, the cause was most certainly something else. Listening to your brother’s anguished cries grows easier over time, don’t you know.”
“Was I...?” Curufin recalls a confused, white-hot muddle of interminable twisting and pulling, punctuated by Celegorm's voice near his ear, softly, heedlessly speaking in Quenya. There is also the warmth of his brother’s body, of his arms wrapped around him, and perhaps there is a soothing hand occasionally pressed to his head. It is followed by a much clearer image of Celegorm leaving the tent, where he now sits alone, his throat tight, breath coming rapidly, occasional shudders still seizing his body. “I... I suppose...”
Maglor nods grimly, looking away. He pats Curufin’s shoulder before rising clumsily, grimacing in discomfort. “Good night, Curufin. May your sleep be restful.”
Before Curufin can respond, the tent flap rustles again. Maedhros steps in, ducking under the low entrance.
Curufin’s complete and utter surprise compels him to speak. “Brother, why are you here? You... you are wounded.” This last is said more quietly, as Curufin sees the wound run most deeply in his dulled eyes.
Irritation flashes over Maedhros’ face. “It is nothing. Others have suffered worse.” He stops, closes his eyes for a moment. Appears to collect himself. But that dull, corpse-like gaze which returns to take its place is almost worse to look upon.
Curufin stares thoughtfully at him. Seemingly, his idea had been the same as Maglor’s. Maedhros, who has taken another step towards him, halts uncertainly.
A strange, acute feeling of shame at his incapacity in the face of his brothers grows in Curufin’s mind. Why do I yet remain here, languishing? I still have my legs and a functioning arm. I have not lost overmuch blood.
Almost automatically, he pulls the cover from his legs and places his feet on the floor, making an attempt to stand up. He is stopped by Maedhros' hand on his shoulder, a sudden dizzy spell preventing him from resisting as he is pushed back down. The motion jostles the sling holding his arm and a whimper escapes him. Maedhros' hand jerks away as if burned.
Curufin’s vision blurs, his chest constricting. Maedhros kneels by the bed. He carefully hugs Curufin, reproaching him in a low, vehement tone. “You are not thinking straight, foolish child.”
“Neither are you, you big... irksome...” Curufin grumbles, too dazed and ill to create much of a retort.
He closes his eyes, for even the light of the single lantern becomes too bright, all of a sudden.
The ache in his chest twists inwards, trapping his heart in its grip. It does not matter that I cannot work with my hand for the time being...
...I am in no hurry...
What would I make anyway, if I were able?
...What have I made at all, really?
What—
.
I cannot stand it being so ruined. Not when it has served me in making— everything.
This at last is too much.
Curufin falls almost completely limp in his brother’s grasp. His eyes snap open with the shock of it, as a few sobs come out muffled into Maedhros’ shoulder, strangled and forced out painfully past the weight in his chest.
Likewise taken off guard, Maedhros makes a noise of surprise and tightens his hold so as not to let him fall.
Curufin squeezes his eyes shut again, trembling, thick, strangely viscous tears streaming down his cheeks into his brother’s clothing. The broken arm trapped between them aches and burns as though a red-hot brand is pressed to its inward parts, but Curufin is too miserable to care. He feels a touch on his hair, and hears Maglor murmuring something.
He tries to speak, but there are no words. His chest seizes up again and he chokes, a thin, whimpering wail all that can make itself heard of whatever black ruin his soul lies in. It is a starless night where the day shall never come again...
Maedhros is rubbing his back. Curufin manages to swallow down the sobs, his tears ebbing away, though he cannot yet bring the whole-body shudders under his control.
Maedhros’ voice is a rough almost-whisper. “I know... and I am sorry.”
The arms holding him falter, and Curufin feels his eldest brother trembling more and more as he is softly laid back down to lie upon the mattress.
Even so, it appears it was reluctantly done, from Maedhros’ expression. Unfallen tears shine in his eyes.
Curufin chokes back a fresh wave of sorrow. “You did not have to... you’re exhausted.”
The shame returns, but he is too wearied to do anything about it.
He vaguely notes something else in Maedhros’ gaze. Something unexpectedly crafty or shrewd, as if he had just figured something out. But he does not have the strength to wonder any more about its significance.
Maedhros does not respond. He sinks down entirely and sits on the ground, resting his back against the low bedframe, each heavy breath catching with pain.
Maglor leans down, touching his upper arm. “Maedhros... you must rest. Lean on me, and I will help you back to our tent.”
Maedhros shakes his head. “I will... be just as well here as... anywhere.” His head twitches ever so slightly in Curufin’s direction.
Curufin is surprised. He had expected to spend the night alone, waiting sleeplessly for Celegorm to return.
Oddly enough, Maedhros appears to be thinking along the same lines. “Besides, here I shall be... first to know how my... missing brother fares.” He nods at the empty bed before him.
Maglor rolls his eyes, giving a look of resignation to the canvas above his head. “I shall at least fetch you something so you can sit more comfortably.”
He takes only a couple of steps before halting at the tent’s entrance, clutching his right hip and growing pale.
“Maglor. Come here.” Maedhros holds out his right arm. Maglor turns awkwardly and limps over to sit by his side against the bed. Maedhros wraps his arm around him, and Maglor rests his head against his shoulder.
Curufin can no longer see his brother’s face with Maedhros in the way, but Maglor begins to hum softly, and he guesses he cannot be in too bad a shape.
Curufin takes his cloak, which is serving as his blanket, and holds it out towards Maedhros. “Here, brother. I know your back is wounded. Use this as a cushion. I will not need it: the night is not cold.”
Maedhros nods in thanks, and takes the cloak.
Curufin relaxes as he listens to Maglor’s humming. It has grown clearer and more rhythmic.
He recognises this melody. It is the curious, plaintively joyful one Maedhros most likes Maglor to play on the harp.
Maedhros turns his head towards Curufin. There is a strange look in his eyes again, this time more indecipherable, with perhaps a hint of grief.
He reaches over and places his hand on Curufin’s head, smoothing his thumb over his brow. Curufin finds his eyes closing. His breath hitches as he remembers the last person who had done this to him, long ago.
It had been Fëanor.
But he no longer has the strength to weep, and he is taken by the darkness of dreamless sleep.
Curufin stands alone in the forest, beside the bank of the rushing river Thalos. Ahead of him, the heights of Ered Lindon rear themselves above the trees, starkly outlined against the clear, blazing sky.
He turns away, leaving them behind, and follows the river downstream, westwards.
The trees thicken, and the shade of the forest curls itself ever closer about him.
I am seeking...
The leaves of the trees fade away into the gloom, and the dark pillars thrown by each trunk soar upwards endlessly, blotting out the light.
How far...? And how long will it take?
It is cold. Too cold for summer. It is no longer far, he knows it now. I am so close.
Only a few steps more. So close. But if I am so close to what I seek, why does it not comfort me?
The shadows ahead part, and Curufin sees the grey frame of a tall gate, its stone pillars unmarked, its doors either pushed inwards or absent. He stops. Whatever call or longing he follows reaches fever pitch.
He passes through.
The darkness is almost complete. It echoes about him as he quickens his pace.
Then slows.
Then comes to a stop.
He looks around, and calls out. “Father?”
The echoes die down.
“I have failed you, Father. Nothing I have made has come close to the least of your works. And I do not know if I will ever be able to avenge our griefs. I put forth all my effort, and only more loss resulted from it. I do not know how much wit, will or endurance I have left in me, but I do not doubt I am nearing my limit.”
A bitter taste fills his mouth. “...Whilst I have your name, I do not have half your spirit.”
There is a presence in front of him, listening. Or at least, Curufin imagines there is.
His own voice sounds loud in his ears, but at the same time so terribly quiet amongst the vast and cavernous passageways stretching out west and east, north and south. “I know... I know you told me I must ever stand tall and proud beside you, as a son of a prince, not fit to whine and beg, but...”
He sinks down to sit on the floor, head bowed. “How am I to continue? Please, tell me. I want to, so very much, and I am in no mind to give up. But I do not know how. I am walking blindly.”
With fragile hope, he raises his gaze. But his eyes cannot pierce the empty blackness filling the halls.
Brushing aside the new wound of disappointment, his voice sounds clear and determined, as a strange numbness overtakes his body.
“But I tell you, I shall not fail to keep trying, and I shall hold to my oath. Hold to it, and to whatever hope you had when you gave me your own name. Curufinwë.”
Silence.
Nothing more.
Nothing...
Curufin cries out into the darkness. “Curufinwë Fëanáro! ...Father!”
Not a single movement in the black emptiness catches his eye.
No whisper of acknowledgement reaches his ears.
No touch of comfort soothes his overwrought being.
He hardly even feels the featureless floor beneath him, so numb has his body become.
Save for his heart. He feels it growing hot within him, pressure building in his chest like the molten fires far beneath a dormant and long cold mountain. Unbearably, painfully hot... anger... agony... something... something else—
His heart bursts and all he sees, feels, hears is murky yellow flame, in his burnt-out chest, in his molten limbs, forcing itself into his aching, nigh-to-bursting skull, suddenly sharpening to a—foreign white fire—
Curufin’s eyes snap open and he struggles against the soft web tightly tangled around him, a stifled yelp escaping him as he forgets he cannot use the fingers of his left arm.
He sits up in bed, breathing hard. Looks down at his arm, which is still splinted, but no longer immobilised with a sling. Grips the tangled blanket with his other hand. Realises where he is, and that he had been dreaming.
His eyes are drawn immediately to the thin sliver of deep blue cutting through the darkness: the opening of his tent. ...Had someone screamed?
His awakening had been so sudden, it felt as though someone had shouted in his ear. Perhaps it was only the dream?
No... he is sure someone had cried out. The air is tense and uneasy, as the air before a storm. Yet much sharper and more disturbing, without the heavy scent of approaching rain.
He glances over at the other bed. Celegorm is gone.
Driven by unconscious impulse, he finds himself brushing aside the tent flap and stepping out into the night. The faintest breath of wind stirs his thin shirt. He looks down, finds his hand clutching it, pressed to his heart. He is still breathing heavily, ribs shifting visibly under the fleshless skin at his open collar.
He shivers as he looks around at the seemingly deserted encampment, hearing no sound but the low rippling rush of the unseen Thalos among the trees to the right of the clearing. The woodlands ahead are cloaked in shadow by the sharp dark peaks of the Ered Lindon, standing out dim and quiet against the starry sky. So eerily similar...
There is a blue tint to the sky behind the mountains: the dawn approaches. A movement to the left catches his eye. Light streams out from the large tent belonging to Maedhros, and a few figures emerge. A couple of them appear to be soldiers of theirs, but the other three he does not know. The last is Celegorm, who stops, head turned in his direction.
The other figures disappear into the gloom. Celegorm strides over to him, and Curufin wonders at his unwontedly expressionless, yet wide-eyed face.
“What is going on?” Curufin’s voice comes out in an anxious murmur. It surprises him a little: he had not quite recognised the feeling embedded in each ragged exhale, in the still frantic pace of his pounding heart.
Celegorm’s gaze briefly flicks aside, and he takes a short, sharp breath before speaking. “You remember the rumours among the Green-elves... a pile of slain, so great it is called a hill?”
Curufin nods shortly, searching his brother’s blank face.
“...It appears the rumour is true. Our scouts found three who escaped the ruin of Hithlum.” Celegorm pauses. “The north is overrun. The High King never returned, and from what they say, not a single soldier of his host lived to tell of his fate.”
Curufin’s eyes are drawn to Maedhros’ tent. He starts off in its direction, but Celegorm grabs his upper arm. “Curufin, come with me now. He is not alone. Maglor is with him.”
Curufin resists, shooting him a frustrated glare.
The grief in Celegorm’s face is swiftly overtaken by anger. “...What aid do you think you can give him, in your state?”
Curufin wrenches his arm from his brother’s grasp. “State?” he snaps. “Hinder me not, brother, for I am not so maimed as that!”
He raises his other hand, painfully closes it into a tight fist, then straightens it out fully. It is the first time he has done so since the arm was broken.
Celegorm raises his voice. “That is not what I—"
But Curufin has already turned his back, and is heading for the tent. There is a half-stifled curse from behind him as Celegorm storms off in the other direction.
Curufin pulls aside the tent flap and stops. A sudden doubtful feeling hollows out his insides. Maedhros is lying on his side upon the bed, head resting on Maglor’s lap. His eyes are closed and his body trembles, each breath a laboured wheeze. Maglor’s eyes are distant, staring straight ahead, apart from an occasional downwards glance. His hand is firm on Maedhros’ shoulder, slowly rubbing it.
But a memory from a dark bed in a dark encampment under an unending star-filled night pricks sharply at Curufin’s spirit, and he cannot even countenance the thought of turning away again. He starts across the rush mat covering the ground and almost collapses into a shivering huddle himself as he drops to his knees beside the bed. Neither brother makes any sound acknowledging his presence, though Maglor shifts slightly.
Curufin’s strength fails him entirely then, and he lays his head and his splinted arm on the mattress, near Maedhros’ chest. His arm throbs anew from the motion, but with it he shakily takes hold of his eldest brother’s hand. The fingers twitch a little, but there is no other movement.
The three of them remain wordless and unmoving until well past the dawn, when Amrod and Amras, having heard the news, come to offer their help and comfort.
The wild lands have become perilous, and the sons of Fëanor make for Amon Ereb. The hill fort stands there strong and as yet unbroken, occupied only by some of their soldiers’ families and a few birds of the air.
The hammer is brought down upon the unfinished sword blade, over and over and over. There is a small pile of repaired or newly forged weapons and armour pieces upon a workbench. Each one well-formed but unembellished. Curufin is in no mind to create anything of beauty.
Each thought running through his mind is punctuated with jolts of dulled pain in his left arm. Though he does not use it to wield the hammer, and it has long been fully healed, he has worked so relentlessly that it has begun to ache again.
The door to the forge rattles, then swings open. Curufin does not look up, continuing his work until the blade’s appearance is satisfactory for this stage of the process.
He sets the hot blade between two planks of wood to keep it straight as it slowly cools. Then he turns to face Celegorm... and Caranthir. He raises his eyebrows.
Celegorm takes a step forward. His eyes are somewhat reddened. “Curufin...” He stops, seeming unable to continue.
There is a pause before Caranthir speaks up, his arms folded across his chest. “You have not spoken to anyone since we heard tell of the destruction of Nargothrond. This news has distressed us all... greatly... but...” His gruff voice sounds strained. “He was your son, Curufin. If there is anything we may do to aid you, tell us, for we do not want you to grieve alone.”
Curufin’s gaze flicks between the two of them. His own voice is cool and clear. “The news was hard to take, indeed. The uncertainty of his fate, in particular, is difficult to bear. But my son is no fool. I cannot believe he would stay so long in Nargothrond. If the news we have gathered is to be believed, Nargothrond was no longer shrouded in secrecy by the time the Foe discovered it, and a great bridge had been built before its gates.”
Curufin surprises himself with his own conviction, not knowing whence it comes, for the same doubts and questions keep turning in his mind. As he continues, his throat tightens. “My son knows... when to leave. He knows when to abandon a lost cause... and would not waste his efforts in turning fools from their ways, if the path they have chosen is so clearly doomed... regardless of love or loyalty. He is wise.”
Curufin falls silent, looking down at the floor.
Celegorm closes the distance and hugs him softly with one arm, pressing his tear-dampened face to the top of Curufin’s head. Then reaches out with his other arm, gesturing for Caranthir to join them.
Caranthir does, and Celegorm squeezes both his brothers tightly. Curufin rests his head against Celegorm’s chest, but makes no move to return the embrace, feeling lethargic now his work has been halted and his single-minded focus interrupted.
He says not a word more, but extricates himself from his brother’s hold and goes to lie down on the small, low bed in the corner of the workshop. He takes a last, vaguely blurry look at the beams of the high ceiling, and closes his eyes.
Curufin only wakes up once, to the feel of a cool damp cloth sponging his forehead. The soft murmuring sounds of both his brothers’ voices are the last thing to fade out again.
They are still there when he finally rises from his long sleep.
The months and the years pass in a blur, stretches of idleness and activity blending one into the next like coloured ink upon wet paper.
Celegorm leaves Amon Ereb with a band of his armed servants. Whether hunting for news or evilcreatures, he does not say.
Curufin has made enough weaponry. He wants to make something new. Or something ...old. Something like the things he used to create.
A gem that shines brightly in the light? He does not have all the ingredients necessary for the liquid in which it is formed. But perhaps he will be able to find or create what he needs...
Amrod and Amras depart, going a different way than Celegorm. Perhaps they tire of the quiet gloom shrouding their brothers.
The Oath sleeps.
They hear Thingol has been slain, and Melian has departed from Doriath. But the Silmaril is held by Lúthien.
The Oath sleeps still.
Curufin wonders at this, yet it is a sort of relief, after all.
Maglor is composing again. The piece of music grows longer daily, the quiet sounds of his harp nigh constantly flowing out from his chambers. A pensive, distant look can be seen in the minstrel’s eyes every time he emerges from his fortress within a fortress.
For those who stop and listen to the melody filling the silences of Amon Ereb, it sounds like a lament. But there are no words to it, as yet.
Curufin begins work on a brooch for his cloak. Perhaps he will make some new ones for his brothers also...
Caranthir sits at a table in the great hall almost every day, a blank book and ink pots before him. His ornate, colourful letters, neat dark script, and detailed, true-to-life illustrations glow almost like precious stones in the sunlight from the long windows. Curufin admires the work from a distance—his brother is very private about it, and does not like providing explanations or being disturbed.
Maedhros has taken charge of the fortress’ upkeep and defence. It is all he seems to do: he speaks only when necessary.
Curufin cuts and polishes small gemstones. It is hard to work with them, for no matter their colour, they bring back thoughts and memories he would rather not dwell on.
White—what he has failed to regain. Red—what he has lost to war. Green—his inability to emulate his father. Blue...
He has never worked much with blue. But the deepest hue soon only reminds him of the banners of Fingolfin’s house, and the many and varied thoughts, feelings, indignations and griefs wound tightly together with the memories.
Curufin leaves Amon Ereb. He brings only two companions with him—they have learned from him in the forge, and he trusts them well enough. All three wear simple Green-elven cloaks over their mail.
He has no destination: he simply wishes to ride, to lose himself in the journey. To avoid the gazes of both friendly and unfriendly eyes.
He does not know why he wishes these things. Nor, in truth, does he care.
He glances back at the fortress only once, on the downward slope of the hill. No banners fly upon its watchtowers, and the guards on the walls are dressed in drab colours, almost blending in with the stone. No brothers stand in the empty gate or upon the wall, watching him go after bidding him farewell. Such small things, and yet... how disheartening once they are gone. If even one of these things were returned to me, I would...
...But they will not be.
Curufin puts the thought from his mind, wishing to forget.
A Silmaril of Fëanor burns again in the woods of Doriath.
The rumour reaches Curufin’s ears in his lonely wanderings. And it is as though the world is brought back into sharp, blinding focus. He has not felt this alive, this alert, this... angry in a long time.
Upon emerging from the hills of Ramdal, Curufin gazes upon the isolated hill fort once more, unchanged and grim under the partly-clouded skies.
A movement across the plain to the north catches his eye. Armed warriors on horseback, and... he recognises Celegorm at their head. A vague, unsettled feeling rises within him. They will reach the hill at the same time, like as not. Mere chance?
As they pass through the fortress’ gates together, they find Maedhros and Maglor standing in the courtyard, waiting for them. Curufin and Celegorm approach, and before either of them can say a word, Curufin is engulfed in a tight hug by Maglor.
“We have missed you, little brother,” comes his quiet voice in Curufin’s ear.
Curufin makes no reply, but returns the embrace, burying his face in Maglor’s shoulder.
Amrod and Amras return the very next day.
Maedhros sends messengers to Dior, King of Doriath, son of Lúthien and Beren, on behalf of the seven sons of Fëanor. They are asking him to relinquish the Silmaril. Which by right is theirs. Has always been theirs.
Amrod and Amras still have some hope. Dior is not Thingol. Neither is he Beren. He is an unknown. Curufin has no hope. The same despondent doubt shows in the demeanours of his elder brothers.
The messengers return, and their doubts and fears are proven true. Dior has returned no response. Not even the simplest refusal. He sent their messengers back at once, with no response.
Curufin paces back and forth along the ramparts, feeling stifled between four walls, unable to settle and work on anything. His anger against Doriath rises like foul smoke, clouding his mind. How dare they keep it for their own. Their king is a thief, son of thieves, who gained our stolen treasure from a robber’s hold.
It pleases them to claim the greatest treasure of the Noldor, and yet they did not lift a finger to help us defend Beleriand against our Foe. They left us to be brought to ruin.
A sharp, frustrated despair melds with the anger. ...I gave them the rope to hang us with, did I not? I did all I could to hinder their princess, and to send her lover to his death. Yet they emerged victorious, and I... each word, each wound, each desperate strife, each taken life, the work of my mind and my hands... my son...! all for nothing.
“Curufin!” A voice calls from the courtyard below. Curufin glances over and sees Amras standing there, gesturing for him to come down.
He follows his brother to the council chamber, and finds three others already there: Caranthir sitting at the table, Amrod standing beside him, and Celegorm, sitting in a chair pulled away from the table and turned towards the fireplace in the wall. The fire is lit: the weather grows chill already. Celegorm is gazing into the flames and does not look up.
Curufin sits down. No-one speaks.
Maedhros and Maglor arrive, and take their places.
The brothers all sit in silence, their expressions wary, blank, or stern.
Celegorm rises, facing them. Determination burns in his eyes. “My brothers, we can no longer brook this in peace. Faith in the goodwill of others is idle hope, and we cannot wait forever, thinking that some vain chance will drop the Silmaril in our laps. For chance will not overthrow the wills of those who seek to keep them from us. We are so few: a single land and dwelling place remains to us out of all we had. How long will it be until we no longer have the strength to fulfil our oath at all, its heavy burden crushing us beneath its weight, trapping us in darkness beyond all hope of release?
“The only way forward, the only way to bring life out of death, is to pursue our Silmarils and regain them.”
He sweeps a challenging gaze over them all. “We must go to Doriath ourselves. And if they will not yield, we must assail them.”
Caranthir nods, his eyes glinting and his jaw set grimly. “I agree that we must. There is nothing else that can be done, in our current state. For my part, I also wish for retribution against those who betrayed us, and this is the next thing to it. Always has Doriath stood aside, sharing in our gains, and yet not suffering with our losses.”
Curufin says nothing, pondering. Bringing force of arms against an Elven kingdom...
The twins appear uneasy. Maedhros’ face shows nothing.
Maglor’s eyes are cold. “What is the point?” he grits out. “Why should the remaining Elven kingdoms dash each other to pieces over a Silmaril, while Morgoth sits safe in his hellish pit and laughs? Two yet lie in his grasp, and if we end up slaughtering each other in Doriath, we shall lose what little we have left, and our oath shall remain unfulfilled.”
“Shall we then needlessly draw out our torment?” rejoins Celegorm. “A single Silmaril in our hands is better than none, and no doubt it shall alleviate a portion of the Oath’s burden. And if we do not force Thingol’s heir to give it up now, think you he will gladly do so after we have regained the other two?”
Maglor looks displeased, but makes no reply.
Vehement in his conviction, Celegorm paces back and forth, meeting each brother’s gaze as he addresses them in turn. “Amras, do you not tire of feeling trapped, bound to the same fate as your brothers, helpless as you watch them suffer from griefs that you cannot soothe? And Amrod, do you not wish to have a measure of freedom to roam in the wild once more, without the constant and wearying fear that you are abandoning us to strive alone?
“And you, Curufin. Since the great defeat, you have done nothing but craft and mend tools of war. If we take back the work of our father’s hands, you will be able to turn your mind at last from thoughts of the Oath and put it to more worthy use, creating things of great beauty.”
There is a flicker of something else in Celegorm’s expression. It disappears before Curufin can make a guess at its nature.
“Have we not suffered long enough?” His voice grows softer, more charged with emotion, as he turns his gaze to his eldest brothers. “For what do we wait? For Morgoth to kill us all before we touch a single Silmaril? For him to assail Doriath and take the jewel back into the darkness? Who will help us in our war against him now? The kings and princes of the Noldor are nigh all slain. And Doriath, in their inaction, helped to destroy them.
“We have little left to lose indeed, Maglor. We must make the attempt.”
One by one, the brothers nod and mutter their agreement.
At last, Maedhros speaks. His dulled, veiled eyes betray little other than despair. “Let us meet again at this hour on the morrow. We will have much to plan and discuss. I ask that none of you disturb me until then.”
Curufin doesn’t think he has ever felt so many emotions at once. The anger and grief are joined by a curious blend of horrified disgust and justified satisfaction, as well as no small amount of apprehension.
Memories of the blood spilt at Alqualondë, long buried, rise like a tide, spilling over and swamping the sharp reefs guarding his mind. Once again, they will not relent until they have what they seek.
They will have to march into the heart of a kingdom, and if the Silmaril is not given up, they will have to fight until either the people of Doriath or the people of Fëanor are no more.
He rises automatically as the rest of his brothers leave the council chamber. Then stops. For Celegorm remains there, standing still, watching them go. And Curufin remembers something.
He folds his arms and tilts his head questioningly. Whence came that small break in thy conviction, brother?
Celegorm looks at him. His eyes are bright and fey, and there is an uncanny, light expression on his face, as though he is about to leap into flight, transforming into a great bird and soaring to the heavens. “All I want is to see you smile again, little one.” His voice cracks slightly. “Your real smile. Not that other one.”
The moment passes as quickly as it had arrived. Celegorm shrugs, lowering his gaze. He turns away and sits back down on his chair before the fire.
Barely aware of his surroundings, his mind stunned into silence, Curufin approaches his brother and kneels beside him.
Driven by some bittersweet feeling too strong to put a name to, he pulls him into an embrace. Celegorm leans down to return it, his arms encircling him tightly, crushingly.
Curufin feels tears against his cheek. Whether they are his brother’s or his own, he does not know.
Curufin marches alongside his brothers, the thick cloak wrapped over his mail shielding him from the midwinter wind. Maedhros is half a pace ahead, leading them. Their soldiers follow in a long column.
Curufin had not expected his eldest brother to lead them so soon after the monumental failure of his designs to attack Angband. He does not envy Maedhros in the least, having his works out in the open for everyone to see. Curufin, at least, can keep his failures private: there are only shattered and buried remnants left of what he made with the small gemstones, the attempts at recreating the gleaming gem solution were cast into the fire, the brooches were all melted down. He left them to be forgotten. No-one knows he began them, and no-one knows they failed him.
Yet, despite everything, Maedhros had taken responsibility for organising their forces. Celegorm had been the one to suggest they attack in midwinter, seeing as most of them were used to the cold after long years of living in the north, and they would more easily reach the heart of the kingdom if they caught them unawares. But Maedhros it was who spoke to the troops. Clearly and plainly, almost as he did before the great defeat. Proud and unbroken.
Or... so it seems.
In an unguarded moment, as Maedhros calls for a brief halt, Curufin searches his eldest brother’s face. Searches for that same splintering of mind he had seen in his father, for he does not want to see such a thing happen again. Never again.
But there is nothing. Nothing but the usual unshakable tenacity and relentless purpose.
Though Maedhros has not recovered since the Unnumbered Tears, and his eyes are still deeply sunken in, their pale glitter is that of burnished iron, not shattered glass.
Curufin narrows his eyes. Not recovered... Indeed, Maedhros is the only one among them who still needs his wounds dressed after that battle. After so many years, even limbs that had been nearly crushed to a pulp were good as new. Yet just this morn he had seen Maedhros re-binding a flesh wound that had broken itself open to weep anew, his face white and drawn, almost sickly, as it so often was these days. Not even Men healed so slowly. Not even Maedhros himself after his capture and rescue healed at such a dismal pace. His rescue... by one who was no longer here. In the wake of a battle that was Maedhros' thought, the work of his own mind and hands.
Curufin looks at the edges of bandages emerging from under the collar of his brother's mail shirt. You have the will to continue, yet... so little will to heal. Maedhros turns his head and their eyes meet. Whatever thoughts that were going to follow in Curufin’s mind vanish. He looks away in sadness. Did I not play a part in this...?
Curufin treads lightly through a deserted hallway, his bloodied sword in his right hand and his bitterly sharp knife in his left. He has lost sight of his brothers in the beautifully carven labyrinth of the Thousand Caves.
He descends a staircase. The treasuries would surely be lower down, towards the heart of the city. Perhaps the Silmaril is there, under guard. Or, if it is still worn by Dior... he may well be hiding down there himself. For Curufin has not yet seen anyone who could be the son of Lúthien. Unless his rumoured striking appearance is just that—a rumour.
He hears distant shouts and cries, along with the sound of weapons clashing, which grow louder as he emerges into a wide and airy passage. He looks to the left. Still deserted, though the echoing sounds are loudest that way. He looks to the right, and sees someone sitting against the wall at the end of the passage, beside a large doorway. Caranthir—
Curufin approaches hurriedly, then falters.
Caranthir manages to raise his gaze and look at him, his face uncharacteristically pale, his arms wrapped around the stained mail of his midsection.
“Celegorm, Dior... fighting. ...Gone through there.” He jerks a trembling hand towards the door. “Help. Him.”
Curufin hesitates, seeing the pieces of a hefty wooden staff splintered on the floor about his brother—a spear shaft! And with Caranthir’s arm out of the way, he sees the end of another piece protruding from the bloodied patch, as though the mail were nothing more than cloth. Who could have...
“Go!” Caranthir snarls, his clouded eyes fearful, the faintest hint of pink still managing to darken his face.
Curufin runs through the open doorway, his eyes immediately drawn to the fighting pair in the middle of the spacious hall.
With a mighty thrust of his blade to his opponent’s chest, Celegorm sends Dior staggering back. Celegorm is pulled off balance, the point of his sword caught in the damaged mail. Dior’s blade swings inwards, slamming into the side of his neck with a sickening thud and knocking him to the ground.
Curufin freezes, stopped in his tracks.
Dior stoops, pulling his sword out of the half-severed neck. Blood gushes out, spreading over the floor.
Then he turns, straightening up slowly, to face Curufin.
Dior is an unsettlingly statuesque individual. An unbidden recollection enters Curufin’s mind of a larger-than-life sculpture made by Nerdanel which had given him an unpleasant surprise upon walking into a dark workshop as a small child. It had been very beautiful, but he had never really been able to look at it with admiration after that, even once it was displayed outside in the cheering light of the Trees.
...There is none of that Light visible around Dior at present. Perhaps it is hidden on his person somewhere.
...He shall die, regardless.
“I shall be avenged, filth,” Curufin growls, his throat clogged with grief and rage.
Dior makes no answer, but steps forward, the angry light in his eyes mirroring Curufin’s. You will die for what you did.
Curufin blocks the cut aimed at his helm with both sword and knife, his arms jarred by the force of it. He traps the blade with the hilt of his knife and swipes his sword towards Dior’s face. Dior steps back, avoiding the blow. With a screech of metal, he easily wrenches his sword away and brings it down on Curufin’s helm. Curufin staggers backwards, his ears ringing and spots flying in front of his eyes. Won’t work... too strong. Another blow is headed for his neck, he stumbles sideways, deflecting it with his sword. His vision clearing, he searches for weak spots as he backs away. A couple of small breaks in his mail.He is bleeding.
Dior advances, and Curufin notices his uneven gait and stained leggings. Left thigh or knee wounded.
He darts to the right, his sword thudding into the side of Dior’s left knee. His opponent stumbles with a stifled cry, and Curufin stabs his knife upwards into his armpit. He feels a mail link burst under the pressure of the point. Dior tears himself away with a grunt and thrusts his sword at Curufin’s stomach. The mail holds, but Curufin is knocked back a couple of paces, doubling over in shock and pain. He keeps his eyes on his opponent, even as he gasps for breath. Dior does not press his advantage immediately, his face contorted with pain. Blood streams from the broad cut in his knee and trickles from under his left arm.
Curufin regains his breath, and the pain recedes a little, but he does not show it, remaining where he is. Dior limps towards him. Once he is almost within striking distance, Curufin straightens up, dodges around to the right and cuts the injured leg with his knife as he passes. In his haste to escape the reach of Dior’s arm, he misjudges the distance. No sinews or major blood vessels are severed—Dior remains standing. But each breath of his is a laboured whimper as he clumsily staggers around to face Curufin once more. His face has paled markedly, and blood spatters the floor with each movement.
Curufin smiles, and advances. He feints towards the right, as though trying for a third strike upon the injured leg. Dior moves his sword across to block it. Curufin merely withdraws, watching him gasp in pain from putting weight on his left side.
Curufin continues making feints with sword and knife, frustrating and wearing his opponent down a little more each time. Dior does not attempt to pursue Curufin as he withdraws: no doubt he is afraid of worsening his wound and falling to the ground.
Dior’s eyes are glazed over. He is trembling. Curufin wonders that he is still upright. It is time to end this, I think.
Curufin darts around Dior’s left side, ending up behind him. In his haste to turn around, Dior slips in a patch of his own blood and loses his balance, stumbling backwards and crashing into the ornately carven wall. He does not fall, but leans against it, groaning.
Curufin approaches and aims a sword thrust at Dior’s face. Dior brings his sword up and deflects it. Curufin stabs his knife into Dior’s belly, aiming for a break in the mail. He misses his mark, and instead bursts another mail link beside it.
Dior grabs Curufin’s right shoulder, then twists to the side and slams him into the wall beside him. Curufin feels something snap in his other shoulder as it hits the wall.
Eyes alight with the fury of anguish and vengeance, Dior does not even flinch as he stands fully upright once more.
Curufin is half-stunned from the impact, and his weak attempt to strike at the giant’s legs again leaves barely more than a scratch.
Dior grasps the front of Curufin’s mail shirt at the collar, his thumb between the fastenings, and lifts him up against the wall.
Curufin struggles in vain. He swipes his sword at Dior’s head, but is half blocked by the arm holding him up, the blow harmlessly glancing off his opponent’s helm without enough force to stun. Curufin kicks at the wounds on Dior’s abdomen, but he barely seems to feel it, deadly concentration in his gaze.
Something sharp rests against Curufin’s lower belly, feeling cold even through his tunic: the point of Dior’s sword has found where his mail shirt divides in two below the waist. Curufin grips his knife tightly in his shaking left hand, grits his teeth at the pain in his shoulder, and stabs Dior in the face. To no avail. With a scream of pain and rage, Dior rams the blade up into Curufin’s body, so far in that a bone in his back is struck. Curufin’s body jerks back on its own, his sword falling from his grasp.
Dior’s eyes veil over with exhaustion once more. He drops Curufin, stepping back and withdrawing the blade. Curufin falls back against the wall, his numbed legs almost giving way under him, his awareness of his senses oddly sharpened. Dior is there before him, watching him, still standing and still very much alive, blood pouring from the hole in his cheek and trickling from his open mouth.
Rage fills Curufin’s breast. ...You... you will not take my brother and live!
With desperation’s strength, he lunges forward and drives his viciously sharp knife downwards into Dior’s chest, between his ribs, all the way to the hilt, through the hole in his mail made by Celegorm.
Curufin remains there, holding onto the knife.
Utter silence reigns in the hall. It is done. He glances up at his opponent’s face. And from the peculiar, distant look in those bright eyes, and the strange clarity of his own thoughts, he knows. Dior does not have it. The Silmaril is gone... it is no longer here.
...Celegorm and Caranthir are avenged, at least. Dior’s breathing has taken on a bubbling, rasping quality. He is done for.
Curufin’s fingers numbly slip off the hilt. He steps back dazedly. Then freezes, his breath stopping, as a sharp pain lances through his belly into his spine, drawing his attention to the throbbing, searing ache growing in his abdomen. He brings his gloved hand to the wounded area and unexpectedly touches something soft and slippery protruding from it. The sensation winds through his insides. He groans. His breath is coming shallow and fast. ...and I am done for... Blood wells up around the dislodged entrails, dripping down his legs to the ground. ...I was near. So very near to retrieving this Silmaril. And yet... here I shall die without having even touched it. Let alone the other two still in the Enemy's grasp.
All is lost for me. This one endeavour of mine was so near to... some kind of completion. Despite everything. And yet... like everything else... it remains undone. Ruined and undone.
Curufin's heart brings him a strange, paradoxical elation, as if to comfort him in his last moments, when in his whole life he has never cared enough to search his own heart at all, which is perhaps where he could have found the inspiration for truly great works, like those made by his father. If he had only tried.
Curufin smiles, but his breath shudders.
Dior still stands there before him, tall and steadfast as a figure of stone and marble. And though the hulking thief's chest heaves and blood seeps from many wounds, his eyes are calm as his gaze lightly meets that of his heartbroken assailant.
The hallway outside resounds with many footfalls, soon mingled with indistinct, frantic voices.
"Curufin!" There is a shout from the entrance, an elder brother calling his name. The sound of hurrying feet echoes in the hall.
But Curufin's mind gives up, and his spirit throws itself violently from his body, which drops like a rag doll to the bloodstained floor.
All who dwelt in Aman were filled with wonder and delight at the work of Fëanor. And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered; and Mandos foretold that the fates of Arda, earth, sea, and air, lay locked within them. The heart of Fëanor was fast bound to these things that he himself had made.
—The Silmarillion, Chapter 7, Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor
Celebrimbor looks up at the tall, imposing visitor in the simple grey and maroon robes, with his silvery white hair, porcelain skin and shining sky-blue eyes. A hush falls over the warm and cloudless day, and no breath of wind stirs the dust of the cobbles outside the hall of the Jewel-smiths. Its doors are wide open, as they usually are on days of fine weather.
A hint of a smile shows on Celebrimbor’s face. He gestures for the newcomer to follow him inside. From his curious introduction of himself and his purposes, it seems this Annatar and he will have much to talk about.
A curious chance indeed.Yet... more than I could ever have hoped for.
Celebrimbor seats himself at the desk in his study, clean and tired, having just bathed after a long day of working with his fellow smiths. What we never could have dreamed of before now seems entirely possible to achieve. And more besides. The depth and breadth of his knowledge is wondrous.
A faint sadness comes upon him. Those who dwell in Valinor... they did not mourn forever deedless, after all. In Middle-earth, the Noldor conceived many new thoughts and works of craft, but this traveller from over the Sea surprises us with much that we had never before known or imagined.
He shakes his head and begins writing down some ideas which had struck him as he bathed. Yet this will soon be remedied. We shall make Middle-earth a fair and wonderful place yet, for the sakes of all who have toiled and suffered here, so often to no avail.
After a moment, he leans back in his seat, reflecting on a buried dream which has burgeoned once more. Long ago, I had thought to create some great work like my grandfather. I honed my skills and mastered every single thing I knew how to make. I looked for more knowledge wherever I thought I could find it. I mastered those new things. Many times, I simply experimented, to find out how things worked, to see what I could make with them.
And I have made many things in my life. Many good things. Yet none of them have I counted as my ‘great work’, for I have never yet determined what the nature and purpose of this great work will be.
...Now... I feel I am close. Its purpose will stem from my desire to protect and repair what is dear to me, of that I am sure. As for the form it will take... of this I am not yet certain. But Annatar desires something similar—the enrichment of Middle-earth. It seems likely that I shall find my inspiration as I work alongside him, and learn what he has to impart on this subject.
There is an air of tension, curiosity, and excitement in the large, hall-like workshop. Celebrimbor is leaning against the wall, merely watching as his fellow smiths arrange their tools and materials and begin their work.
Rings which will not serve as adornment, sigil or emblem alone. Rings granting the wearer certain powers beyond their natural abilities, allowing them to exercise their will within the world in a manner rarely heard of among incarnate beings...
Celebrimbor has trouble believing such a thing could be possible. And yet, Annatar’s lore and knowledge has never failed them in their endeavours thus far.
Perhaps he feels it is too good to be true: he has wished for such a thing to be possible for a very long time. He remembers an endless, star-filled night, full of grief and uncertainty. ...Ever since I was a child.
Celebrimbor’s eyes are drawn to the wide, arched entrance; Annatar has arrived. He never needs to speak a word to announce himself—he has a great deal of presence, and naturally attracts the attention of all. He raises a hand. “Do not stop. I am only here to observe.” As always, the words are soft-spoken, a contrast to his impressive build.
Celebrimbor raises a doubtful eyebrow as Annatar joins him by the wall.
Annatar’s lips quirk up, a merry glint in his eye. “Ah, you know me too well. I meant: I shall not join them immediately.”
Celebrimbor chuckles. “Do I know you so well? You are one of the most self-effacing individuals I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. ‘Middle-earth’ this, and ‘Elven-kindreds’ that. ‘Lord of Gifts’ you call yourself. Always labouring for the sake of some greater cause. ...What does Annatar himself want? That’s what I would like to know.”
A hint of some distant sorrow shows in Celebrimbor’s gaze.
Annatar’s usual shallow smile fades. His expression becomes solemn. “I... would like to create something great, and something lasting. So many things have fallen into oblivion, beyond sight and beyond recall, and I cannot stand idly by and watch it continue. I have realised that on my own I am not powerful enough to carry out my desires. But I may achieve them as I work together with others towards a common goal.”
He shrugs, the amused smile returning. “Besides, it gets lonely working by myself all the time. I am happy to have found this place. I hesitate to presume too much, but... from what I have observed, your feelings and desires are near to my own, are they not?”
Celebrimbor nods. “They are, indeed.”
Annatar’s eyes shine with genuine joy.
Celebrimbor is surprised. That’s new. And strangely, he feels... touched.
In truth, after asking his learned friend such a personal question, he had felt a little apprehensive. It had just slipped out, he had not meant to, he...
And yet, what he said was... well received. To say the least! For he has never seen Annatar look at anyone in this way before.
The pair fall silent, watching the other smiths. The tension in the air has increased, and there is no sound but the rush of flames and the striking of hammers.
After a moment, Annatar places a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “It appears someone over there is almost finished. I shall go and see what has come of his efforts.”
The uncommon warmth of his touch lingers, forming a curious underscore to Celebrimbor’s thoughts. The odd impression he has always had of Annatar has been further confirmed.
I have met people before who boasted their knowledge and trustworthiness, though in truth they were careless and insincere. Annatar... somehow manages to be the opposite. Despite his often superficial and flighty manner, time and again he proves he is hardworking and willing to share the gifts he speaks of.
Annatar is inspecting the finished rings, giving quiet words of praise and advice as he weighs the work of each smith in his hand.
Celebrimbor listens, still pondering. Indeed, in this he is sincere. ...I am not quite sure what to make of it all.
Then he shrugs, putting these thoughts aside. They are not relevant to his purposes. He supposes Annatar is simply strange like that.
And... it is not as though he has never kept company with ‘strange’ people before. In a way, the familiarity is reassuring.
“Gather around. I will show you a way of improving these.” Annatar’s voice and presence have become sure, certain and commanding, as they ever do whenever he works in the forge himself. Yet he is not stern or forbidding: he fairly glows with satisfaction, seeming entirely at home in this place.
He gathers his tools and begins. Naturally as breathing, with mesmerising ease and precision, he works a rod of gold into a slim band.
Speaking a word of intent with each strike of the hammer.
Engraving it with coiled designs in a beauteous and ordered pattern, explaining the significance of each curious shape, and noting that runes or letters may be used to a similar effect.
Placing a gem of a deep orange hue in the setting prepared for it, and speaking a blessing as he curls and bends the fine golden pattern around the edge to hold the gem in place.
Celebrimbor is almost reminded of his grandfather. And yet... While watching Fëanor at work was like watching a great furnace blazing away—fierce, bright and hardly to be contained—looking at Annatar is like looking into the Sun, where there is no hindering smoke nor fluctuating flame, where the light beams forth with effortless effort.
Annatar holds out the finished ring towards Celebrimbor, looking directly at him, a proud and confident smile on his face. “Come and see it.”
Celebrimbor walks up to him, and holds out his hand.
The ring lies lighter than a feather in his palm. Celebrimbor would not have believed it was made with gold, if he had not seen its creation before his very eyes. He is inspired.
“I give it to you, Celebrimbor. Try it.”
Celebrimbor puts the ring on. At once, an unusual expanding sensation overtakes his mind’s eye, allowing him to perceive more and further than his ordinary senses are capable of. He is keenly aware of each living presence within and around the hall of the Jewel-smiths, and most especially those with strong wills of their own. Each one shines with its own unique light. At the same time, he has the impression that something heavy and purposeful has been dropped into the back of his mind, with the potential for great focus which cannot easily be gainsaid or overthrown. ...I see how this could be used. This kind of awareness could allow me to know all that happens in my land, all that grows and changes, lives and dies within it. And if I trained my mind to focus this weighty power, I could affect these changes to suit my own purpose. Perhaps even slow or halt them entirely.
Celebrimbor turns his gaze to Annatar. The blazing brilliance of his friend’s spirit far outshines the light of every other Elf present, even cloaked as it is beneath a greyish, wavering veil. ...And I think...
Entirely unused to this way of seeing and doing things, Celebrimbor slowly gathers together the weight in his mind, focuses it to an intentional point, and ever so gently nudges Annatar. He immediately senses his surprise in return. ...Yes. I could inspire others to do great things of their own. Even plant courage and inspiration in their hearts when they have none left.
Celebrimbor removes the ring, pausing for a moment to recover from the disorienting change of perspective.
Annatar looks both pleased and extremely amused. If any of his earlier surprise remains, he does not show it. “So? What think you?”
No longer simply inspired, Celebrimbor’s mind is quite made up. “I think... I will join you in making these. What you have shown me here is very interesting.” He smiles. “We shall study this gift of yours, and in time, I think we shall be able to improve upon your improvement. Shall we not, smiths of Ost-in-Edhil?”
There are nods and murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group, their eyes alight with eagerness, confidence, or simply wonder and admiration.
Annatar inclines his head. “I look forward to seeing you surpass me. Do not hesitate to ask for my aid or advice at any time. I do not jealously guard my knowledge, as you know well.”
The soft breeze rustles through the leaves of the graceful willows in the great garden beside the hall of the smiths.
Celebrimbor is there alone, gazing at another ring.
It holds no power of its own. It does not even have the kind of beauty that leaps readily to the eye. Annatar, for all his pleasant unexpected quirks, would not look twice at such a thing.
That darkened, twisted steel does not shine one bit in the light, yet it so clearly reflects someone worth more to Celebrimbor than all the works of his hands. He has not looked at it since Nargothrond, but it has always lain as an unseen weight in his belt pocket.
He clenches it in his fist, face angered but eyes sad. And I will not look at it again.
His father should have made so much more than this small thing. But somehow, for some reason, the chance was stolen from him, and he never made anything in the way Fëanor did.
Nothing remains of him but this. No-one but Celebrimbor knows about it. And unlike the Silmarils or the Seeing-stones, no-one would care even if they knew. For even Curufin himself cast it aside.
For the first time in the Sun-lit years of the world, Celebrimbor’s eyes grow moist with tears. He returns the ring to its pocket, and walks down the deserted pathway to his own house, which lies in the midst of the garden. Its white façade shines a gentle pink and gold in the light of the setting sun.
====
After so long a time spent in their company, Annatar is gone.
Purportedly to travel, in search of other peoples who would benefit from his aid.
He left with nothing but praise for the work of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and promised them he would visit again.
You are dear to me, he said.
Celebrimbor sits in his darkened study, gazing out the wide window. He has not moved for a long time, not even to light a lamp as the deep night falls outside. It is a night of cloud. There are few stars. Eärendil slowly blinks, swallowed by the shadows at intervals.
Celebrimbor does not doubt Annatar’s word, as such. Yet the old weight in his chest has grown heavier. I cannot help but grieve his departure. For it has always been the final stage before death. Once we are out of each other’s sight and influence, who can tell what Doom will have in store for us?
I never saw Finwë’s death.
Nor Fëanor’s.
Nor that of my father.
Nor those of my uncles.
My kin of the houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin perished in places far from me. ...I knew I would never see Finrod again, but I had not the courage to say farewell to him. Perhaps I feared he would hate me for what my father did. Or perhaps I hated him for departing in such a manner, and could not face him, for fear of wounding him further.
...And when I left my mother’s arms to cling to my father for comfort in the dark madness of Tirion, I never knew I had embraced her then for the last time.
With or without a farewell, they all vanished from my life. And never did I lay any of them to rest, nor did I see the cairns or memorial stones set up for them. If indeed they did not lie in unmarked graves.
And merciless time marches on. I am caught in its current, and the dead remain behind. Even the places they lived and the things they made are destroyed and swallowed up. The Silmarils are far beyond our reach, and the Noldor shall never again be what they once were.
No, I shall never see their like again. But I shall remember them, through all the long ages of the world.
Celebrimbor finds himself standing by the window. A breath of wind comes inside to ruffle his hair.
I will build something for our sakes. A memorial for the sake of all we have lost. All I have lost. I will not give up on Middle-earth.
But... must I then remain here alone? Sundered from my only remaining kin in this land, who in the end did not understand me as well as I thought they might?
...
It seems that way.
Celebrimbor bows his head, gripping the windowsill, no longer able to stand upright. It is as though the ancient weight of grief and turmoil that for so long had lain in his chest has reached his heart at last, piercing it right through.
He knows what form this great work will take.
The moment it comes to mind, a strange lightness of spirit overtakes him, cradling and focusing the stone of sorrow in his heart.
Celebrimbor goes downstairs to the small, lonely, rarely-used forge, with its two tall windows looking out upon the holly-trees behind his house.
He does not need to draw plans or make notes: he knows this process by heart. Only the appearance of the rings, and the intent behind them, shall differ from those he has made before. He shall never reveal his precise method to anyone else: only he shall know the blessings spoken upon them. They are between him and those he has lost.
But the rings shall not be a memorial for the past alone. They will have the power to heal and preserve things to a far greater extent than any of the other rings heretofore created, for this will be their primary purpose. They will stall the ruinous decay of time in this land Celebrimbor and his kin loved so well, and perhaps he and the remaining Noldor will be comforted by it.
The forge’s fire blazes bright, the gems and metals have been chosen, and Celebrimbor begins.
The weight of all his sorrow is poured into the rings, each hammer strike a ringing hope and a funeral knell.
At last, he sets the gems into the rings, in echo of his grandfather’s work. The three blessings are drawn from deep within his own mind, and not spoken aloud.
For the air. A bright memory. A new star appears in the sky, a guiding light for ages to come.
For the water. A clear imagining. He hears the distant notes of an agonised lament for the past, the cracked melody blown and tossed by the sound of the sea.
And for the earth...
No. For the fire. An awful dream, not his alone, one of means and ends. A single hand clutches its last long-sought light, staining crystal glass blood red.
Celebrimbor stands in the quiet workshop, the forge’s fire dying down, the gloomy night outside the windows lightening to a deep blue. The clouds are clearing.
He is cradling the Three Rings in his hands, gazing down at them. An unfamiliar, peaceful balm has soothed the wound in his heart.
He is filled with wonder at what he has crafted. Now they are made, I realise... they also will be closely tied to the fate of the world.
He steps forward and looks up through a window at the starry sky. He opens his hands, letting the lights of heaven shine down upon his creation. I do not understand yet. But I do know... this is beyond me.
====
Eregion has been laid waste.
Celebrimbor stands alone before the hall of the Jewel-smiths, facing the leader of the enemy forces.
Annatar. Sauron. Come to claim what he calls his own.
A mob of shrieking, snarling Orcs surrounds Celebrimbor. The brutish soldiers do not close in on him yet, wary of his blade and the light of his eyes. Sauron stands behind the mob, merely watching, with a wrathful, callous eye.
Celebrimbor knows he will never give away the location of the Three Rings. Regardless of what happens next.
To reveal them to Sauron would be to destroy the very purpose they were created for. It would go against his design for them, and any pain, heartbreak or death he may personally encounter as a result of this design is quite simply irrelevant.
The fates of the Three Rings, Narya, Nenya and Vilya, are now unbound from him.
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