Disclaimer: Arda and all that is in it belong to Professor Tolkien. I own only the mistakes.

Rated R for scenes of intimacy, in addition to potentially biased, cynical portrayals of characters.

Many thanks to onoheiwa for beta reading!

Chapter 1. Holier Than Thou

They said he fell in love with her the moment he saw her, captivated by her "sudden beauty revealed beneath the sun"; but they were wrong—completely wrong.

As an experienced hunter, he was perfectly capable of moving through the corridor without making a sound, but he took satisfaction in breaking the silence, with no intention of masking his presence. Nargothrond, with its many halls and chambers carved by the Naugrim, was an intricate structure to visitors. Though he had once been restricted from accessing some areas, those limits had been lifted after Finrod's departure. Now, he knew the stronghold as intimately as if were his own home, for he had explored every corner. No one raised an objection; no one even tried.

Not entirely true, he thought. Someone did. Orodreth, the Prince Regent—though, of course, only in title. How could Finrod have trusted his weak-hearted brother to rule in his stead, especially against their powerful kin? Who could possibly stand against two sons of Fëanor?

He entered a secret passage, the one to which he had given specific orders: no one could approach without permission from him or his brother. His beautiful captive was kept alone in the chamber at its end. One might argue about the legitimacy of such an arrangement, but he never made her life miserable—why would he? He was supposed to wed her.

Lips curling, he managed a twisted smile.

Yes, he would wed her, regardless of whether it was against her will.

- Turko, bring her back with us.

- Why? You know well I have no interest in their strange affairs.

- She is the daughter of Thingol, his only daughter and his heir. Thingol has never opened his gate to the House of Fëanor, but with her, you will hold the key to Doriath—a key that will unlock great power.

- What do I care for Doriath?

- You ask while knowing the answer. Surely you have not forgotten our Oath. As we stand, we do not have the strength to fulfill it. We need allies, and here lies an opportunity we cannot afford to miss. Once you win her heart, Doriath will be ours.

- If my eyes and ears have not deceived me, she loves that mortal. Her heart is already won.

- Then let that mortal die. Doriath will be ours. And leave Finrod to his fate. Nargothrond will be ours as well. The House of Fëanor will rule all of Beleriand, while the usurpers will be left only the northern lands... and a hidden city, at most.

Involuntarily, his smile vanished.

The door, crafted by Curufin himself, was locked. Only the two sons of Fëanor in this place possessed the keys, and no others were permitted to visit her.

Again, not entirely true, he thought. There always seems to be an exception. A familiar figure lay before the door, unmoving as stone, its eyes filled with sorrow and vigilance. It was Huan, the wolf-hound who had followed him since the days in Valinor.

This is unacceptable, he thought. Why do you worry, Huan? What on Arda do you think I might do to her? I know you do not approve of this arrangement, but there are things you cannot understand.

His cold glance was enough to make the hound rise and step aside without protest. Not without hesitation, he noted, but to his relief, there was neither suspicion nor mistrust. Not yet.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the chamber. There sat Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia, composed and quiet. She had refused all the delicate, luxurious garments he and his brother had sent her, still wearing the simple sky-blue gown she had been wearing when they found her. Her long, dark hair flowed like the shadows of twilight, and her bright grey eyes carried the misty light of starlit water.

He regarded her, still troubled by the realization that her beauty stirred nothing within him. This is strange, he thought, and unfair. He remembered the moment she had revealed herself before them, her beauty so radiant that even the high sun seemed dim beside it. His guards had stared at her, transfixed and unwilling to look away. Yet, he had merely raised a brow, unmoved—not indifferent, but without the fervor that gripped the others.

In a surge of wry anger, he kicked the door closed behind him and took a step toward her, significantly reducing the space between them, for the chamber was not large. Whether her almost imperceptible flinch came from the door's slam or his approach, he could not tell. Deciding to interpret it as the latter, he allowed himself a mocking, lordly smile.

"Do not worry," he said, lowering his head toward her with the elegance of one greeting an equal at a formal ceremony. Many predators toyed with their prey before the strike—a truth he knew too well. "I will not touch you—not for now, at least. In the future, perhaps, but that choice will rest with you."

She straightened slightly.

"I have sent word to your father: the mortal Beren is dead, and Finrod has perished with him. I shall be King of Nargothrond, and you will remain here as my Queen. We will wed once his blessing arrives, but even then, I will not touch you unless it is your will." He caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes and laughed. "I seek your hand, not your life. From what I have heard, you are far more valuable alive."

He knew he sounded like Curufin, but he did not care. It mattered little who had devised this plan; he had approved it, though for his own reasons. Ever since the fulfillment of the Oath had become a seemingly impossible task, he had sought diversion—a pinch of spice to an otherwise plain dish, a moment of amusement in an endless, tedious hunt.

She regarded him without a word. There was no abhorrence, no anger, no fear—none of the reactions he might have expected. It perplexed him briefly, but he quickly dismissed it. He had no interest in understanding her thoughts. Speculating on the minds of others was a skill he neither possessed nor cared for. That was Curufin's domain.

...Knowing more of animals than of people...

Suddenly and violently, pain surged within him. Almost trembling, he cursed himself as he always did. It has been such a long time; why will you not simply forget?

He felt her steady gaze upon him. Her silence, coupled with her composure, gnawed at his patience until he could bear it no longer. Without a word, he turned abruptly and strode toward the door. What troubled him was neither ambition nor desire. It was something else—something more sorrowful, yet more real.

"Lord Celegorm," she spoke then, addressing him by his Sindarin name. He halted but did not turn.

"You will not go to rescue him, as you promised, will you?"

He made no answer, but she required no answer.

"Nor will you go to rescue your kin—King Felagund."

"He is only my cousin," he muttered. So she knows, to some extent. But what do you truly know, daughter of Thingol? My kin or not, it makes no difference. This is not the first time I have betrayed my so-called kin. And even if he dies, he would not be the first to perish because of me.

"Yet you and your brothers never even tried to rescue your eldest brother," said that sweet, nightingale-like voice, thorns lacing every word.

"That is the least of your concern!" he snapped, whirling around to face her. "Now listen to me. Pray—for that is all you can do. Pray that your mortal suffers less before he dies. And for your comfort, keep this in mind: if he were ever to come back, I might allow you to...keep in touch with him. For I cannot touch you anyway. I am far more generous than your father."

Her face blanched, and he felt a cruel satisfaction at the sight.

"I will not wed you," she stated.

"You have no choice." he replied, his eyes cold. "Your father's blessing is not strictly required."

"I will not give my vow to you," she restated.

"Fortunately, I have no need of it," he said. "As I mentioned, I have no issue taking you as my wife in name only. You may continue your affair with that mortal, if you wish—he will die soon enough by our reckoning. And even if an Elf and a Man could have a fruitful union, their children would be doomed to mortality as well."

Once again, these words were not entirely his own. It was Curufin who had reached this conclusion during a discussion about the future of an Elven maiden with a mortal. Yet they seemed perfectly suited to the moment—brutal in their truth, sharp with disdain. He wielded them now with precision, intent on shattering the pride and defiance that Thingol's daughter clung to so tightly.

And he succeeded.

She did not refute him immediately, for she could not deny the truth in his words. Instead, she looked at him, and in her gaze was something he did not expect: sorrow. For the first time, he found himself deeply unsettled by it. Though he was no master of reading minds, it was plain to him that her sorrow was not for herself, nor for Finrod, nor even for her mortal lover.

Strangely, her sorrow only served to stoke his anger further. How dare she? How dare she look at him with such eyes? Did she truly believe that her half-divine blood made her holier than he? A king's daughter, heir to an ancient realm, and yet she had abandoned her kin and her duty for a love as reckless as it was irrational. She lacked the strength to face the consequences of her choices and had instead turned to those who had spilled the blood of her kin, hoping they might lend a merciful hand. Do you have no shame? Cast aside that lofty air of yours, Thingol's daughter—you are no less stained than I!

She must have sensed the storm gathering in his gaze. Her lips parted, perhaps to speak, but he gave her no chance. Closing the distance in a rush of cold air, he seized the front of her gown and hauled her upright. The fabric strained beneath his grip, slipping down one shoulder but refusing to tear, while her dark hair tumbled loose, veiling her face in wild disarray. Against this contrast—disheveled yet radiant—her pale skin gleamed like frost beneath the starlight.

For a heartbeat, he froze. His grip faltered, an inexplicable hesitation rooting him in place. His breath caught, and the intimidating light in his eyes dimmed, softened by a flicker of confusion.

She saw the shift, the bewilderment taking shape in his eyes. Her composure, steady until now, wavered at last, rippling like a still pool struck by a sudden stone—not with fear, but with astonishment.

Yet she should fear him. This was no dream, and there would be no escape.

The memory he had most dreaded to awaken, yet could never bring himself to forsake, shattered its chains in that instant. A searing heat coursed through his veins, and the rush of blood roared in his ears. I will not let you flee again. Tightening his grip on her gown, he reached for the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. With a force born of fury and despair, he crushed his lips against hers. I will not let you flee again.

For a moment, she froze. Then came her struggles. Her hands pushed against his chest, her voice muffled in resistance, but her strength was no match for his. He held her firmly, her every movement igniting the memories he had fought so hard to bury. The curve of her body against his arm, the warmth of her lips, even the defiance in her posture—it all returned to him, painfully vivid. A sigh escaped him, low and unbidden, as he closed his eyes, surrendering to the pull of the moment. If things could remain like this, he thought, perhaps I could reconcile myself to this union. Perhaps I could even heed Curufin's counsel—perhaps I could try to win her willing heart.

Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he could not.

He knew too well the desires that lay at the end of love, and he was not blind to the hunger stirring within himself. Yet no matter how fiercely his will commanded him, his body—bound as it was to the deeper truths of his soul—refused to move beyond that single kiss. It was as though an unyielding line had been drawn, stark and immutable, barring his path. The hotter the temptation burned before him, the colder the warning within him became.

And so his anger returned, sharper now and turned inward—a helpless rage, honed to a bitter edge by his own inability to act.

A stinging pain shot through his tongue, and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. The shock of it jolted him back to himself. As if waking from a dream, he wrenched away, releasing her and stumbling backward. His breath came in ragged gasps. What spell has bound me to think this could ever work? For a brief moment, he stood trembling, the weight of his actions pressing down upon him like an iron shroud. I should have known—what binds the unwilling binds me as well.

Drawing a deep breath, he forced his nerves to steady. When he looked at her again, she had already composed herself. Her gown was straightened, her hair smoothed, and with quiet dignity, she wiped the blood from her lips. Her movements held a grace that seemed untouched by what had just transpired. There was no anger in her gaze, no hatred, as though his outburst had been no more than a passing shadow, dimming her radiance for but an instant.

Then words came from her—words that no one had ever dared to utter before him.

"Lord Celegorm, you love someone else."

"Stop," he said instinctively, his heart faltering.

"I know you plan to take Doriath through me. But do you truly wish to pay the price? A bond you do not desire, yet one that will last until the end of the World?"

He closed his eyes briefly before snapping them open again. This conversation had somehow slipped beyond his control. He needed to end it. "Stop."

"And I know you are not giving up your love for the oath you and your brothers have sworn."

Because I am not giving up my love, he thought, in spite of himself. I never would.

In that moment, he realized he was not hiding these thoughts from her, and she read them in his eyes, plain as day. He could not let her voice it. Action preceded thought, and in a blur, he struck her across the face to secure her silence. He needed no reminders of the past.

The next moment, he staggered back, stunned, staring at his own hand in disbelief. Violence had become all too familiar to him of late, but it had always been reserved for the minions of the Enemy. This was the first time he had turned it against a defenseless Elven maiden. As his mind churned with shock and turmoil, a low growl came from outside. Huan, he thought. Blame me as you will. I am not proud of what I have done.

But it was her voice that broke the silence, sad but calm.

"Then I pity you, Celegorm."

Her words struck him mercilessly, leaving him seething with rage. Yet he was helpless, like a hound punished for reasons it could not comprehend, though the punishment was just. When he finally left, driven by some incomprehensible urge, he did not lock the door behind him.

Later that day, Curufin came to him. When his younger brother entered, he was already lying in bed, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame of a candle. Yet, he felt no need for rest.

"Did you talk to her, Turko?"

He nodded, not bothering to sit up.

"What did she say?"

"What else could she say?" he shifted uncomfortably. "Do you really think she would be eager to wed me?"

A maid entered with a light knock. He waved her away impatiently, aware that his words had likely been overheard. Tomorrow, no doubt, this place would be awash with rumors of my supposed love for Thingol's daughter, he thought. So be it. Sometimes lies serve better than the truth.

"My understanding is that you know how crucial this arrangement is to us." Curufin's ever-gentle yet firm tone came through, calm and convincing. Among the seven brothers, Curufin resembled their father most—not only in appearance but also in his talents for creation. Yet Curufin's way was not their father's way. That difference, paired with all the similarities, had always unsettled him. "You know this is our best chance to fulfill the Oath."

"Ah, of course," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Clearly, it is far wiser to seize two Elven kingdoms before we even consider the Silmarilli—or the Oath."

The light in Curufin's eyes turned cold. "Innocence is too late a claim for you, my brother. Surely you remember how we facilitated Finrod's departure. You were so eloquent that, for a moment, even I was at a loss."

"Yet in time you found much to say, and made a far more convincing impression." He sat up, brushing back a lock of hair. Among the seven brothers, he was often praised for his lighter hair and fair features; though perhaps not as striking as Finrod, he carried the proud bearing of the House of Fëanor. "Do not misunderstand me. I do not claim innocence. We forfeited that word long ago."

And when on Arda had that happened?

He extinguished the candle and lay down again after Curufin left, staring into the darkness that enveloped him.

Since when had betrayal become routine? Since when had killing ceased to repulse him? Since when had even turning against those who sheltered them seemed not only acceptable but inevitable?

He remembered himself then: proud and furious, sword gleaming in hand, fire burning in his eyes. That was when he first learned of Finrod's plan—to aid a mortal named Beren in retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown. It was true that Finrod had given refuge to him and Curufin in Nargothrond after their defeat at the Dagor Bragollach. It was also true that Finrod had shown great generosity, especially considering their guilt in the slaughter at the Haven of Swans. Yet, if he was not mistaken, Finrod now intended to help a base mortal win the hand of Thingol's daughter through a quest for a Silmaril—one of the Three Jewels, the rightful claim of the sons of Fëanor. If Finrod wished to die fulfilling an ill-considered promise, so be it, but leave the Silmarils out of it. He and his brothers had sworn an unbreakable oath to reclaim the jewels, and they would never suffer anyone else to take, have, or keep them. Of course, Finrod knew this. Had not the wise eldest son of Finarfin been present when the Oath was sworn? Yet Finrod chose to keep his own word and disregarded theirs entirely. This left the sons of Fëanor no choice. If they allowed this to pass unchallenged, what else on Arda could not be allowed?

He had spoken then, as eloquently and fiercely as his father once did in the high court of Tirion. When he finished, Curufin followed, speaking in his ever-steady and graceful manner, with the same unyielding firmness, yet wielding more chilling indications. Finrod's plan, he warned, would drag Nargothrond into war. The evil flames of Morgoth would destroy their hard-won peace. Had they not already witnessed the devastation of the Dagor Bragollach? Had they not heard of the ruin that befell Dorthonion? And if they were indeed so brave and valiant, why not follow the example of their beloved High King and confront the Dark Lord himself, face to face?

Doubtless, he and his brother had won the debate. Finrod, with only the mortal and ten warriors, had set out on a path destined for failure. Now his noble-hearted cousin lay captive in Sauron's dungeon, paying the price for his folly, his fate still uncertain.

And, of course, he would not go to rescue him.

This is not the first time I have betrayed my so-called kin. And even if he dies, he would not be the first to perish because of me.

Notes

A section of this chapter was added years after the original story was written (from "Strangely, her sorrow only served to stoke his anger further" to "dimming her radiance for but an instant"), on 2024-12-01.

Chapter 2. Do Not Tread on Me

He did not sleep well that night; he had that dream again.

It was a dream with which he was well acquainted. It always began in the white city of Tirion, when the light of the Two Trees still shone upon the lands of Aman—before the Noontide of Valinor came its end and the Noldor were estranged by the lies of Melkor.

Oromë had been his mentor then. From the Vala, he learned much about kelvar and olvar, and over time he became one of the greatest hunters among his people, as well as a master of the tongues of beasts and birds. Together with his brothers, he often rode across the plains of Valinor and hunted in the woods of Oromë, with Huan the mighty hound at his side.

He was born a prince, the third son of the House of Fëanor. His father, the eldest and most gifted son of the King, named him Turkafinwë, for even among a people renowned for their strength and skill, he stood apart. Over the long years, it seemed inevitable that he would develop a unique kind of pride—one that, for the most part, was understandable.

Doubtlessly, his brothers had similar experiences. They were the offspring of the Spirit of Fire, and fire was in their blood. It was widely known and uncontested that the House of Fëanor possessed as much pride as it did talent. There is nothing wrong being proud; how could there be? One does not conceal a jewel if he owns it. How could anyone question it or presume to stand as their equal?

He truly believed no one could—until he met her.

It began as an ordinary day. He was unsurprised to find Fingon at home, chatting with Maedhros. Offering his cousin a courteous nod, he took a seat beside his eldest brother, intending to change out of his riding clothes later. Only after settling himself did he notice the child at Fingon's side—dressed in snow-white and star-silver, pale skin and dark hair forming a striking contrast.

"Man i seldo?" he asked Maedhros, frowning. Before he received an answer, the child stood, graceful and slender like a birch sapling.

"I hérinkë—you are quite rude," the child said, clearly indignant. "If you wish to know someone's name, why not ask her directly?" (1)

Maedhros coughed and looked away, but he blinked in disbelief. Hérinkë?!

He stared at her, and she stared back. They locked gazes, neither willing to yield, until he finally decided to give up. One does not simply argue with a child, he thought—especially when he already had ample experience dealing with four younger brothers.

"Then what is your name, please?"

The child turned her head aside with an air of conceit. "I do not desire to tell you."

His mind must have gone completely blank then. All he remembered was that, for a moment, he even forgot his well-known habit: his mother had named him Tyelkormo for a reason—he was prone to jumping up if irritated. He heard Maedhros and Fingon burst into laughter and felt a long-lost kind of anger. If you were a boy, I would simply slap you. Count yourself lucky that you are not!

"Irissë," Fingon said, his tone firm. As the eldest son of the House of Fingolfin, he did not indulge his amusement for long. "Mind your manners. You insisted your teacher for riding and hunting be someone who really knows animals. I can assure you that Turkafinwë is the best in that respect."

Her brother's words seemed to soften the child a little but left him entirely stunned. Irissë? Then this is the sister of Findekáno and Turukáno, the young daughter of Nolofinwë? While he was still digesting the revelation, he felt her gaze—full of doubt and clearly scrutinizing. It was quite unpleasant to be stared at by a child in such a way, but just before his patience wore thin, she broke the silence.

"So you are the cousin who knows more of animals than of people."

At these words, he would have literally jumped to his feet had Maedhros not stopped him in time. Girl or not, I will teach you a lesson, he roared in his mind in the tongue of wild wolves, I swear.

It was not until many years later that he came to see the truth in her words.

They said the Eldar always fell in love at the first sight, but that was clearly wrong. To fall in love at the first sight with a child? He was far more sensible than that.

Several days later, he took her out for her first riding lesson. He was not merely willing—he was enthusiastic, as he had a plan to humble her. Before they left Tirion, he had issued a subtle command to her horse: ignore her instructions and seize the first chance to throw her off—unharmed, of course.

He fully expected her to either fall quickly or burst into tears, hoping to crush her unfounded pride. But she gave him no such satisfaction. Stubborn as stone, she persisted, doing her best to manage the unruly horse without a single word of complaint. Even Huan, observing her struggle, seemed moved by sympathy. Catching the hound's gaze, he begrudgingly admitted that his trick was not working as intended and decided to call it off.

Her horse was visibly relieved when he gave the command to "cooperate with her". Leaning back on his own white stallion, he watched her face light up as she finally succeeded in urging the horse to gallop. A pang of guilt struck him. Perhaps I overreacted. However annoying she may be, she is just a child.

She stopped at a distance, turned her horse around, and began riding back. He watched absently, questioning whether taking on this responsibility had been a mistake. Findekáno and Turukáno both avoided this—perhaps they were wiser. Gesturing for Huan to run off and play, he waved his horse away to rest and found a patch of grass nearby to lie down. For a brief moment, his thoughts wandered—until the sound of hooves grew louder and closer, unmistakably heading straight for him.

The horse was only a few feet away when he sensed the danger. Acting on pure instinct, he rolled to the side just in time to avoid the hooves and sprang to his feet, swiftly pulling the rider down.

"What were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice trembling with fury. Though he restrained himself from slapping her, his hands were neither gentle nor considerate as he released her. "Trying to make him tread on me?! You had better know this—such a scheme will never succeed, not for as long as Arda endures!"

"You had it coming!" she shouted, breaking free the moment her feet touched the ground. "You told my horse not to listen to me!"

But he was already distracted. His anger did not dull his senses, and something felt wrong where she had just touched him. Her hands were wet—but not with sweat. A glance at his wrist revealed a faint smear of red.

He seized her again, ignoring her protests, and forced her hands open. Her small palms were covered in traces of blood, the telltale marks of an inexperienced rider gripping the reins too tightly for too long.

"Why did you not tell me?" he asked, his gaze fixed on her hands.

She snatched them back, defiant. "Why should I tell you?"

This time, he looked at her fully, and as he met her steady gaze, his thoughts drifted to his younger brothers: Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. Though each was distinct in their ways, they all shared one common trait: unruliness. Maedhros and Maglor were no exception, nor was he himself. She is not like one of the House of Nolofinwë, he thought. She is like one of the House of Fëanor. And it struck him, as it often did, that it had always been a pity they did not have a sister.

He called back his stallion and retrieved a small phial from the saddlebag. Pouring its contents over her hands, he said, "It will heal soon." The potion had been prepared long ago, originally for himself in those youthful days when careless injuries were common—an age he had long since outgrown.

She glanced up at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face at the unexpected gesture. Then, after a brief pause, she smiled for the first time since they had met. "Well, you are not entirely without merit, then."

At that, his urge to slap her flared anew.

When did that urge subside? When did he begin to enjoy her presence? When did he realize that she was no longer a child but a maiden tall and strong, like a young tree standing steadfast beside her brothers? And when did others begin to call her the White Lady of the Noldor?

He did not know. All he knew was that she shared a profound closeness with him, one forged over years of companionship, and that she remained by his side even after the Shadow fell upon their people. Though she preferred his company, she maintained a warm relationship with his brothers, particularly Amrod and Amras. She often visited them, and together they would ride and hunt across the wide, untamed lands. Over time, he and his brothers had come to regard her as one of their own—one of the House of Fëanor.

It was not until much later, when he saw her again after a long separation caused by the exile of his father, that he began to understand what she truly meant to him.

"You love me?" she said, tossing her head back with laughter. "Do not be absurd. You cannot possibly fall in love with someone you have watched grow up."

He laughed along with her, the sound more natural than he had thought himself capable of. Around them, the world was bathed in the mingling light of silver and gold, suffused with warmth and serenity. Their laughter startled a flock of birds nearby, which burst into the air in a flurry of wings and cries, vanishing into the radiant sky.

That day, during the hunt, he was more ruthless than ever. The game piled up quickly, far beyond what they could hope to carry, but he showed no sign of stopping.

"Enough," she said firmly. "Do not kill without need."

He pretended not to hear her, but she was not one to let silence serve as an answer. Urging her stallion forward, she quickly closed the distance between them until they rode side by side. Then, with startling boldness, she reached for his reins—a maneuver so daring that even he, a master rider, would hesitate to attempt it.

The moment she seized the reins, her balance faltered. His horse jerked, pulling her from her own. Without thinking, he dropped his bow, lunged toward her, and fell with her in a tangle of motion.

When the chaos subsided, he found himself lying on his back in the grass, with her beside him, her face marked by a faint smear of blood and a few blades of grass clinging to her cheek. Yet, she appeared unscathed—no serious injuries, no broken bones.

So fair, so cold... she looks more fragile than she truly is, he thought, almost transfixed. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, some strands brushing his face. And then he realized: his arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her close as though to shield her from the fall.

"Tyelkormo," she said at last, after a pause, "If you mean it, I apologize."

The magic dissipated. You apologize, but for what? For your mockery, or for your rejection? He released her and shifted away. As the distance between them grew, a sharp pain tore through his chest, but he endured it in silence, determined not to let it show.

She continued. "You are my cousin. Indeed, you are like a brother to me."

"But that is precisely what I meant," he said with a harsh, bitter laugh. "Why apologize? There is nothing to forgive." Then, summoning all the courage he could muster, he turned to her, meeting her gaze and holding it steady. "My dear Irissë, have I done anything to make you misunderstand?"

He lied as best as he could, though lying had never been his strength. But what choice did he have? He was a son of Fëanor. This was the price of dignity and pride.

Now, in the dream, he was granted the privilege of seeing himself. An unseen force pulled him toward her, compelling him to face what lay hidden in her bright grey eyes. It was like gazing into a mirror, vivid and unrelenting.

The face staring back at him was strikingly handsome, adorned with a casual smile faintly laced with jest. Yet the eyes betrayed him. They were the eyes of a wounded beast. Beneath the grey veil of deception, white-hot flames twisted and writhed, searing with pain, humiliation, and anger.

His eyes burned in the thick grey mists of Araman.

"Come with me, Irissë. I cannot explain now, but trust me—this is important. Very important."

She stood motionless in the darkness. The light in her eyes was as cold as the mountains of ice scattered across the water.

"We will take you as our own, I swe—"

"Tyelkormo!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the mist like a blade. "One does not swear lightly. And you have already sworn an oath that cannot be broken. Is that not enough for you?"

"No! I do not mind swearing another to you, for I shall never break it!" The words burst from him, not unbidden but long buried, simmering beneath the surface of his thoughts. He had pondered them. He had pondered them over and over.

"And that is why I must decline." She lifted her chin, a posture he knew all too well: stubborn and unruly—not like a daughter of the House of Fingolfin, but like a son of the House of Fëanor. "Though I am grateful that you care for me."

Because I do not love you the way you want. He heard her whisper in her unguarded mind. I cannot love you as a lover.

He took a step back, and for a fleeting moment, an urge almost gripped him—to knock her unconscious and take her with him, heedless of her protests or what she might say or do later. If she would hate me forever, so be it. But another voice rose from the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, halting him in his tracks.

Even if you could take her with you, why would you? You know she speaks the truth. She does not love you, and you would have to watch her fall in love with someone else. Can you imagine the agony? Why would you choose to endure it? All that you cannot possess—why make it possible for another to claim?

Let her stay here, in this darkness and cold, on this side of the world. Though she will never be yours, at least you will be spared the day she becomes another's bride.

He turned and left without a word, not even glancing back.

He heard his father laughing as one fey again.

"None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved."(2)

He saw it coming. He wanted to shield her from it. He set aside all his pride and bitterness to seek her out. And what was his reward? Another rejection—direct and undeniable.

"Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!"(3)

He saw Maedhros silently step aside, while Curufin followed their father without hesitation. His mouth twitched, forming a smile as sullen as it was cruel. Holding his head high, he took a torch from a guard. As he strode toward the beautiful white ships, he felt the weight of Maedhros' gaze upon him—surprised, questioning.

Stop being hypocritical, my brother. Your weak words and symbolic gestures were all you offered in the name of friendship. At least I tried something better.

The fire in Losgar seemed boundless. Looking up at the red-streaked sky, he wanted to laugh, but when he opened his mouth, only a faint smile emerged.

Notes

(1): Man i seldo: Quenya, 'who is this boy?'

I hérinkë: Quenya, 'this little lady'

(2) (3): quotes from The Silmarillion.

I know that Elves do not need reins or saddles, but saddlebags are surely convenient, even for them.

Chapter 3. Through the Never

After that, he heard nothing of her for a long time. In truth, he believed he never would. If she had not returned to beg forgiveness from the Valar, then surely she had perished and passed to the Halls of Mandos. After all, with hröar of flesh and blood, how could the host of Fingolfin have crossed Helcaraxë—the Grinding Ice that only the Valar and Ungoliant had ever braved?

Yet under the cold stars in Middle-earth, he thought of her more than once. The nights stretched endlessly, and in those sleepless hours, he extended his thoughts toward the West, only to encounter an impenetrable barrier shielding the Blessed Realm. The Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out. (1) The Powers of Arda seemed to have done so with startling efficiency—a feat all the more remarkable given their slow and cautious approach when dealing with Morgoth. (2)

But it is absurd of you. Even if you discovered where she was, whether alive or dead, what difference would it make? Did you not make your choice when you took the torch and burned the way back?

...If only one could simply burn away a particular part of his past...

Yet he was far from sentimental and lacked the artistic temperament of his elder brother, Maglor. As a son of Fëanor, his pride was too deep to let him forget the pain she had caused him. But neither would he dwell on it, for in his heart, he knew he still loved her.

In the cold winds of Hithlum, he often gazed westward toward the dark mountains silhouetted against the deep blue sky, his only companion a silent hound.

Fortunately, he had little time to dwell on such matters, for revenge and the Silmarils demanded his focus. Morgoth could not afford to leave the followers of Fëanor undisturbed, and before long, the peace was broken by an onslaught from the North. Thus began the Dagor-nuin-Giliath.

Unexpectedly, even with the memory of Alqualondë behind him, he felt no reservations or disgust for war. In fact, after the initial shock of being taken unawares, he found himself swiftly consumed by wrath and a thirst for blood. This time, no one can call it unrighteous. Even more surprising was the revelation of his natural talent for warfare. His knowledge of the tongues of beasts and birds, acquired in Valinor, proved invaluable in Middle-earth, enabling him to glean tidings from creatures fleeing the darkness. Thus, the Noldor often knew the movements of their foes before the Dark Lord himself. East of the mountains of Ered Wethrin, near the wellspring of Sirion, he laid a trap, drove all the enemy forces that had invaded Beleriand into the Fen of Serech. Simple. Hunting strategies applied to war.

But the Enemy was mightier than they had anticipated. Though the Noldor emerged victorious in the Battle-under-Stars, their triumph came at a grievous cost. Curufinwë Fëanáro, the mighty and peerless Spirit of Fire, met an extraordinary end, consumed by the very flames of his wrath. Morgoth, granting them no respite for mourning, dispatched an embassy under the pretense of offering terms for a truce. Maedhros, intent on uncovering the Enemy's hidden designs, accepted the invitation—but he was no match for Morgoth's treachery.

When Morgoth demanded they abandon their war in exchange for their eldest brother's life, his reaction was immediate and resolute: Never. No son of Fëanor would negotiate with Morgoth again. Neither the blood of their father and grandfather nor the weight of their unbreakable oath could be set aside. The House of Fëanor would continue without their eldest brother, if it must.

Refusing compromise, the remaining host of Fëanor retreated to the shores of Lake Mithrim, burdened with much to rebuild and recover. For the time being, Maglor assumed Maedhros' place, though it was no secret that adapting to this new role would require more than time.

So when Curufin sought him out for a word, he was unsurprised.

"We are at war, Turko. Makalaurë has no rival in songs or poetry, but we need someone who can lead our warriors to victory."

Curufin's words carried an undeniable truth, regardless of his underlying motivations. One could hardly expect a work like Noldolantë to sway the Enemy, especially while the Noldor faced pressing dangers. Though Maglor was unmatched in artistry, his gentle nature made him ill-suited to be a wartime leader. Worse, he placed morality above all else, even in matters as crucial as defense and vengeance.

Ridiculous. At Losgar, none of us was innocent. Perhaps our eldest brother can claim that he at least spoke his mind, but what excuse do you have, Makalaurë? You would not have burned those white ships had you truly lamented the Fall of the Noldor.

"If necessary, you are next in line for leadership, and you have my support."

He needed no further indication. Though quick-tempered, he was no fool; as a master of strategy and tactics, he knew better. He laughed. "I cannot lead alone. We as brothers will decide our course of action together."

They both understood the implications. Amrod and Amras, the youngest of their house, were unfit to lead, and Caranthir lacked the patience for the tedium of governance, favoring the thrill of the battlefield. Together with Caranthir and Curufin, he could restore order to the House of Fëanor—provided Maglor agreed to lead in name only.

None of them gave thought to the kingship Maedhros had left behind, for none deemed it of importance. Likewise, none considered attempting to rescue him, for they all believed it to be an impossible task.

"Yet you and your brothers never even tried to rescue your eldest brother."

Do you understand now, daughter of Thingol? How can I do for a cousin what I have not done for my own brother?

...By treason of kin unto kin...(3)

The Moon was rising.

Its silver light, though less pure than that of Telperion, was far brighter than the stars.

And across the shores of Middle-earth, the trumpets of Fingolfin echoed.

However unlooked-for their arrival, the prospect of facing his father's half-brother's wrath was the least of his concerns. As the first light of the Sun spread across the camp by the lake of Mithrim, he stood at its edge, his gaze fixed on the banner of blue and silver rippling in the golden glow. Now he knew with certainty—she was alive. She had endured the grueling passage across the Helcaraxë, surviving alongside her father and brothers. But what could he possibly say or do if he stood before her again? And what would she say or do if she stood before him?

...Knowing more of animals than of people...

Nevertheless, he began the painful process of reasoning. Long ago, when she had discovered his deception, she had taken immediate revenge by commanding her horse to tread on him. Now, his house had betrayed hers, abandoning them to hunger and death, and he had betrayed her by burning the ships at Losgar, despite his futile attempt to persuade her to come with him. What would she do to exact revenge this time? Bury him beneath the icebergs of the Helcaraxë, or strip him of his last secret hope with another merciless rejection? He imagined she might do both, though not necessarily in that order.

So, he chose distance.

"We will retreat to the other side of the lake."

"What?!" Caranthir exclaimed, his voice brimming with disbelief. "Are you afraid of them?"

He shot his dark-haired brother a warning look. "Moryo, mind your temper." Bad temper, worse than mine. Yet I am the one called Hasty-riser. Was our mother's foresight flawed, or have we both changed? "As you can see, we are outnumbered. I will not risk a conflict." And do you truly wish to fight them? They are not the Teleri—they are the Noldor.

"Turko's words bear the light of wisdom." Maglor said, as expected, lending his support. Curufin remained silent at the time, but later sought him out, his skepticism clear. "Turko, you did not make this decision because of her, did you?"

The question brought him to his feet in an instant. His care for her was no secret, but it was one of those unspoken truths better left buried. Before he could respond, Curufin raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. "I apologize if I am wrong. I mean no offense. You made a wise decision, and I trust you will continue to do so."

He searched his brother's face and found no mockery—or perhaps it was there, but he could not discern it. When they rebelled against the Valar and chose exile, Curufin's wife had remained behind. Arriving in Middle-earth with only his son at his side, Curufin seemed unlikely to invoke such a painful topic merely to provoke him.

After a moment, he nodded, accepting the apology, but could not bring himself to offer any reassurance in return. It was irony enough for Curufin to call his decision wise. But what would he do if, one day, circumstances placed him directly at odds with her? To that, he had no answer.

Neither of them knew then that their concerns for the future would soon prove unnecessary. Not long after, their cousin Fingon achieved what no one had dared to imagine: he ventured alone to Thangorodrim and freed his friend of old from long and terrible torment. Maedhros, the eldest son and heir of Fëanor, had returned.

Maedhros' recovery was swifter than anyone had anticipated. Yet, he was not unchanged: he had lost his right hand—the price one pays for folly when dealing with Morgoth. Even so, he remained tall and imposing, his commanding figure undiminished, and his striking copper hair made him unmistakable. In every way, he was the natural leader of the House of Fëanor. Nothing, it seemed, could prevent him from reclaiming his place as their head. He was the eldest, the most experienced, and once counted among their finest warriors. Still, he made his position clear: if any of his younger brothers doubted his ability in combat due to the loss of his hand, they were welcome to test him themselves.

Maedhros must have prepared meticulously for this day. It would have taken relentless practice to adapt to fighting without his dominant hand—and to fight even better than before.

"By now, Findekáno must have become a double-handed warrior," Curufin remarked later. But for him, Fingon's skills were irrelevant. What mattered was the look in his eldest brother's eyes when Maedhros' blade broke his defenses and came to rest at his chest. However bitter the realization, he knew he had no choice but to concede defeat.

Thus, Maedhros reclaimed his status, more decisively than ever—not merely by virtue of being the eldest but through undeniable merit. Maglor was genuinely relieved, and Amrod and Amras accepted the renewed order without hesitation. Caranthir, after witnessing Maedhros' display of strength, also acknowledged his leadership. The House of Fëanor was once again united under the command of a formidable leader, and those who ceded their positions did so as quietly as mists fading at dawn.

Perhaps we should feel grateful, he thought, that someone is willing to shoulder the burdens for us. Yet with his responsibilities passed to another, he found himself unmoored, and a darker weight began to creep in—one he had once thought left behind. The shadow of past regrets and unfulfilled desires loomed larger, more troubling than the loss of power or status.

Fortunately, again, he had little time to dwell on it. To everyone's astonishment, Maedhros' first major decision as leader brought an unexpected loss to the entire House of Fëanor.

"I will cede the kingship to Nolofinwë."

"Why?" Caranthir demanded, again the first to speak. "Is that your way of showing gratitude to Findekáno—just because he saved your life?"

At that, the light in Maedhros' eyes grew so fierce that Caranthir nearly choked on his own words. Yet when the copper-haired prince spoke after a pause, his tone was calm, even faintly amused. "I have considered many ways to thank Findekáno for saving my life, but the kingship of the House of Fëanor is certainly not among them. However"—his smile faded abruptly—"I do not believe we can defeat the Enemy or fulfill our Oath without the support of the other two houses. If a crown is what they desire most, let them have it. The House of Fëanor will endure and prosper without it. It is a small price to pay for what we must achieve."

"Then the House of Fëanor is truly dispossessed," Curufin said softly, his voice tinged with a somber finality. "It was foretold in the Prophecy of the North."

"Then let it be the last part of that evil curse to come true," replied their eldest brother.

As a son of Fëanor, he was obligated to attend the kingship handover ceremony. According to Maedhros, they were princes not only of the House of Fëanor but also of the House of Finwë, and the House of Finwë would no longer stand divided. How hypocritical of you, my dear brother. Yet the moment he grasped the full implication of those words, his sarcasm vanished. The House of Finwë. Then…would she be there too?

In truth, she was not there. He could not decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved. So, has she chosen to distance herself as well? Perhaps burying him beneath the icebergs of Helcaraxë had proven too difficult, even for her. But does that mean she has no desire to do so? Or does it not? He forced himself to rein in his wandering thoughts as a dull ache began to build in his head. Her absence means nothing. She remained as enigmatic as ever.

Despite initial confusion, the Noldor eventually reunited through reconciliation and cooperation. They soon surveyed the lands and established new realms across Beleriand, with the House of Fëanor claiming the eastern territories. He became the Lord of Himlad alongside Curufin, with the Pass of Aglon, lying between Dorthonion and Himring, also under his command. Years later, Fingolfin hosted a feast near the pools of Ivrin, on the western side of Sirion. Though invited, he declined, and at Mereth Aderthad, Maedhros and Maglor were the only sons of Fëanor to attend. By both chance and design, he had successfully avoided seeing her in person since their arrival in Middle-earth. All he knew was that she had first gone to Nevrast with Turgon, later departing for a hidden city whose location was a secret known to few.

Notes

(1)(3): quotes from The Silmarillion.

(2): in fact the Hiding of Valinor happened much later than that. As for why he could not reach the West any more, I would like to leave it for the readers to interpret.

The story in this chapter merely represents one kind of dynamics in the House of Fëanor after Maedhros's capture, and I am by no means advocating it as the only possibility.

Chapter 4. The Unforgiven: Part One

Decades had passed since Morgoth last dealt significant harm to the Noldor. That did not mean, however, that the Dark Lord refrained from testing their resolve after his bitter defeat at the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. At one point, a great army of Orcs was sent to swarm the highlands of Dorthonion, where Angrod and Aegnor held their posts. Some even broke through the Pass of Sirion and the Gap of Maglor, spilling into Beleriand. Yet this assault merely granted the Noldor the triumph of the Dagor Aglareb. Fingolfin and Maedhros did not "wander abroad with little thought of war," as the Enemy had hoped. While the main host of the Dark Lord pressed the sons of Finarfin, forces from Hithlum and Himring closed in from the west and east, crushing their foes like iron caught between hammer and anvil.

He remembered the relentless pursuit of the Orcs across Ard-galen, hunting them down to the last. It was then he began to understand why his father had made the fateful choice to venture deep into the dark realm with only a handful of guards. Let the foul blood of evil creatures spill beneath bright blades. Let the limbs of vile monsters break under thundering hooves. And always, Huan was at his side. The hound of Valinor showed no mercy, tearing through all enemies in his path.

But Maedhros raised his hand to halt their advance as they neared the border of Dor Daedeloth, where Curufinwë Fëanáro had made his last stand. Instinctively, his gaze turned west. Beyond the field of riders bearing the Star of Fëanor and across the barren, ashen plain, another host emerged—a sea of riders led by a royal banner of blue and silver, beneath which King Fingolfin sat astride his great white steed.

In unison, Fingolfin and Maedhros broke from their main hosts and rode to meet one another. When the banners of the two houses flew side by side, the dark-haired king turned to the copper-haired prince and spoke first. "A great victory."

Without hesitation, Maedhros inclined his head. "It belongs to the Noldor."

Fingolfin nodded in agreement. "And the Noldor shall claim it, now united by kinship and friendship."

The King spoke true. What followed was a long peace—long and monotonous, at least in the east. After the Dagor Aglareb, Morgoth seemed to recognize the vigilance of Maedhros and turned his attention toward the House of Fingolfin. Orcs came around Ered Lómin, crossing through Lammoth to assault Hithlum from the west. But Fingon, no less watchful than Maedhros, had already received word in Dor-lómin before their arrival. The Prince of Hithlum met them at the Firth of Drengist, where he drove them cleanly into the icy waters of Belegaer: a swift and decisive victory. Another notable event was the arrival of a creature unseen before—a dragon. Once again, Fingon the Valiant led his mounted archers into battle, defeating the beast and driving it back to Angband.

He heard of those events and wished Morgoth would send such challenges to the east, for he felt as though he were merely idling. Often, he rode north through the Pass of Aglon to survey the vast grasslands of Ard-galen from the hills of Himring, by day or night, ever mindful of the Siege of Angband: Fingolfin and Fingon held the west, Angrod and Aegnor guarded the south, and the sons of Fëanor maintained their watch in the east. It seemed the Noldor had succeeded in keeping Morgoth contained, and his father's words—a promise of unclouded skies, sweet water, wide lands, and free people—had, at last, come true.

Everything seemed well, save for the lingering Shadow in the North. Yet even the smoke above Thangorodrim had grown so faint it could scarcely be seen from afar. Besides, why should he trouble himself over it? He was no longer the one burdened with planning for the future; his eldest brother had taken that weight upon himself. In those tranquil days, the Dark Lord gradually faded from his thoughts.

We may not gaze upon the same land now, but surely we look upon the same stars.

Letting his horse wander freely, he sat down beside Huan. Late at night, beneath Himring's ever-cold winds, the warmth of the great hound was a welcome comfort.

As peaceful days stretched on, it was not long before the Noldorin princes returned to one of their oldest pastimes: hunting. His favored grounds lay in the forests and fields of the south—the lands of Amrod and Amras. In the early days of their settlement in East Beleriand, the twins had been reluctant to remain stationed so far from the enemy lines. Amrod had even protested to Maedhros, with Amras chiming in to support him. But Maedhros, unshaken by their defiance, had merely smiled and replied, "You are sent there because you are needed there. If I am not mistaken, you two are among the greatest hunters of the Noldor."

"No better than Turko," said Amrod.

"Why not send Turko there, then? He even has Huan to aid him," added Amras.

Maedhros' smile deepened. "Because I need Turko here. He knows the tongues of birds and beasts, and they have proven invaluable in our wars." Then his smile faded, and his tone grew more serious. "Rear and front are equally important, Ambarussa. We must be certain the lands behind us are secure."

The twins exchanged a glance, shrugged, and finally conceded.

Now, riding with his younger brothers through the beautiful wilds of East Beleriand—hunting, feasting, or resting as they pleased—he found little to trouble him, save for the occasional encounters with their cousins from Nargothrond. Though he bore no ill will toward Finrod, Caranthir made no effort to hide his disdain for the House of Finarfin. Finrod, ever diplomatic, approached such meetings with courtesy, but they still occasionally ended on sour terms.

This, however, posed no great inconvenience; they could simply head to Thargelion instead. Near the shores of Lake Helevorn, on the western slopes of Mount Rerir, Caranthir had built his fortress. Curufin, in fact, preferred this place, as it was closer to Belegost and Nogrod, the hidden Dwarven cities in the great mountains of Ered Luin. Though Caranthir held little love for the Dwarves, dismissing them as secretive and unappealing creatures, Curufin—so named for his resemblance to their father in both appearance and skill—spoke highly of their achievements in smithcraft.

Of all the Noldorin princes, Curufin showed the greatest interest in the Dwarves and shared the most common ground with them, though Maedhros also won the friendship of Azaghâl, King of Belegost. In Himlad, Curufin often welcomed Dwarves who ventured into Beleriand for trade, eagerly learning from their expertise while sharing the language and lore of the Noldor. Thanks to his efforts, the Noldor benefited from the vast knowledge and craftsmanship of the Dwarves, while the Dwarves marveled at the steel-tempering techniques of the Noldor.

Thus it came to pass that he and Curufin visited the fortress of Rerir more frequently than they traveled south. Sometimes, Caranthir extended an invitation; at other times, they simply went, knowing they would be warmly received. In Thargelion, each pursued their own interests: he often hunted with Caranthir, while Curufin hosted the Dwarves, frequently joined by his remarkably gifted son, Celebrimbor.

As a messenger from Himlad arrived at Rerir, he was sparring with Caranthir in the courtyard. Nearby, Curufin and Celebrimbor were examining a Dwarf-made knife—a gift from Telchar, one of the most renowned masters of Nogrod.

"Lord Celegorm, there is news we believe you would wish to hear without delay," said the messenger.

"Speak." Twisting his wrist swiftly, he deflected a powerful strike from Caranthir. Without hesitation, Caranthir countered, his sword flashing in a smooth arc that both blocked the riposte and delivered a sharp counter-strike.

"We have an unexpected guest in Himlad, my lord. Lady Aredhel arrived five days ago, alone."

With a loud clang, his sword flew from his grasp. Caranthir, more perplexed than pleased at such an easy victory, frowned, while Curufin, who had seemed indifferent to the messenger's arrival moments before, now turned his attention to the scene.

"Is she not staying with Turgon?" he asked, his heartbeat quickening. "In a city known only to its inhabitants?"

"Lady Aredhel did indeed come from the Hidden City, my lord. She said she came to see you—her cousin and friend of old."

It felt as though all the waters of Helevorn had been dashed upon his face—a sudden, icy chill spread through him. Cousin and friend. She must have chosen those words deliberately, he thought. It was her way of saying, I come to see you now, but nothing has changed between us.

"Then I suppose we should prepare to return." Curufin rose, taking the knife from Celebrimbor and fastening it to his belt. His tone was calm and casual, betraying nothing of what might lie behind his words.

"Wait." He barely recognized his own voice. Curufin raised an eyebrow, but Caranthir, still preoccupied with wiping sweat from his brow, paid no attention to the interruption.

"Why the haste to return?" he asked, steadying his voice. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were of the House of Finarfin—if he were, perhaps he would not need to summon all his control merely to seem lighthearted. "Do you not have plans to meet the Naugrim from Belegost, Kurvo?"

Curufin studied him for a moment before speaking. "You know her well, Turko. She may lack the patience to wait—even for you."

It would be better if she had none, he thought bitterly. But what if she does? After all, she had waited far longer than he had ever expected. And now, she had come—not to reconcile, but to remind him of their shared past. A past that had been painful for him, and likely no less so for her. She means to force me to confront her. But for what purpose?

He could not go back. Not now. He could not go back.

A guard retrieved his sword for him, granting him a moment to mask his unease. Taking the blade, he slid it into its sheath in a single, fluid motion. "She will not mind. You know she is our friend."

Curufin raised an eyebrow again; but, this time, he chose to remain silent.

Relieved by Curufin's lack of argument, he turned to Caranthir, feeling far easier to address this brother. "It was an accident, Moryo. I propose another match. I will not have a reputation for being bested by a younger brother."

Caranthir snorted. "You have never won, Turko, and you never will."

"Well," he smiled, "we will see." Without warning, he drew his sword and struck with lightning speed. The laces of Caranthir's tunic fluttered to the ground, severed cleanly. With the blade now pressed lightly against his brother's chest, a different smile—far from righteous—spread across his lips.

Caranthir froze for a heartbeat before exploding with fury. "What in Arda is this, Turko?"

"Call it my win," he said, withdrawing his sword with a mocking flourish. In the blink of an eye, Caranthir drew his own blade and fixed him with a glare as sharp as steel. After a moment of taut silence, the clanging and scraping of swords once again filled the courtyard.

Curufin watched for a moment longer before shaking his head and leaving with Celebrimbor.

He remained at Rerir with Curufin and Celebrimbor as time pressed relentlessly forward: late spring blossomed into summer, which then faded into a golden autumn. When the chill of winter arrived, his reputation as a hasty-riser became undeniable, for his restlessness grew with each passing day. Then came the fateful moment during a sparring match with Caranthir, when he lost control and wounded his brother's forearm. What followed, however, was inexplicable even to himself: he erupted in fury, hurling accusations at Caranthir with abandon, despite knowing full well that the fault was his own.

Caranthir, with a temper no better than his, did not take it well. Had Curufin not been informed and arrived in time, the consequences might have been disastrous enough to amuse Morgoth in his dark dreams. That night, he lay sleepless in his chamber, staring absently at the ceiling patterns, his thoughts adrift. When Curufin entered, he was not surprised.

"I will not apologize," he said flatly.

"And I will not ask you to apologize, my brother," Curufin replied.

He had not expected such an answer. Turning his head, he saw his younger brother standing straight, his face calm and unreadable. Perhaps he is my most dangerous brother, he thought. Curufin's composure was far harder to contend with than Caranthir's fury. And the people in Himlad—do they follow my temper, or do they obey Curufin's words? Yet he quickly dismissed the doubt; it was baseless. Curufin had done nothing to undermine him—this he knew better than anyone.

"Do you remember what I said to you when we were still in Mithrim?" Curufin asked. "About your decision to retreat."

He remained silent, and Curufin continued without waiting for a reply.

"I believe you should go back, Turko," his brother said. "For yourself, if not for her. Will you reconsider?"

"That is none of your business," he replied curtly.

Curufin said nothing. He simply stepped back, turned, and began walking toward the door. Yet before leaving the chamber, he spoke again, his voice calm as ever. "I am your brother, Turko, and I mean no harm to you. Remember that."

The sound of the door closing was so soft it was almost imperceptible. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, fixing his eyes on the patterns until they blurred and faded.
...

The light of the Two Trees shone upon the endless fields of grass, scattered with flowers of every hue. Bathed in silver and gold, two riders swept by, swift as the wind.

"I prefer leopards," she said, dressed all in white. "They have more grace than lions."

"You will find the same in their tongues," he replied with a grin. "But I must tell you, those two said your fur is far too conspicuous to make a good hunter."

She laughed. "They might be right, but habits are habits. I do not want to change, and I cannot change. What shall we do next? Another match?"

"You know you will not win."

"And I know I will never have the chance to win if I do not try," she retorted, then suddenly looked up. "Wait—look, a swan!"

"Are you certain?" He turned his gaze upward to follow hers. She was right. There it was—a large swan, its white wings spread wide and its long neck gracefully arched, too striking to be mistaken. Yet, knowing their nature well, he found it unusual—almost impossible—for one of them to appear here, in the fields of Valinor.

Raising his voice, he called to the proud bird in a tongue she did not understand. After a pause, he repeated the call, this time in a different tone. She noticed the shift and asked, "Why did you change your tone?"

"At first, I used the Noldorin accent," he explained, still gazing at the bird as it began to circle down toward them. "He is not accustomed to it. He is from the city and harbor of Alqualondë."

"Then he must be one of those Ossë gave to the Teleri," she said, dismounting her horse. As she moved, the silver ribbon fastening her dark hair into a single braid flashed like a bright arc in the wind. "Ask him why he has come here."

"I would rather ask him where his mate is," he replied, dismounting and stepping to her side. "A swan is rarely without his mate—if he has chosen one."

The swan landed before them, folding its white wings with effortless grace. He nodded and made a subtle gesture; in response, the bird bent its long neck and uttered a series of soft calls. She stood aside, watching, as surprised as she was fascinated, for his usual pride—so palpable and unyielding—had vanished without a trace.

"You look strange," she remarked.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "What is strange?"

"You look almost…amiable."

"There is nothing strange about that," he replied, frowning slightly. "If you know them, you will understand what they require of you: respect."

"No," she said with a mischievous smile. "What is strange to me is that amiability makes you look very…unnatural."

Realizing she was mocking him, he took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the swan, as if the white bird had suddenly become the most important thing in the world. Seeing his irritation, she smiled again but held her silence until he finished. "What did you say to him?"

"Something unnatural."

"What did you say to him?" she repeated, still smiling, unfazed by his sarcasm.

Knowing she would not relent, he sighed. "He is looking for his mate. He has searched everywhere near the sea and now intends to comb every inch of the fields of Valinor."

"He lost his mate?" she asked, momentarily caught off guard. "How did that happen?"

"Apparently, he does not know, so I do not know either."

"What if he cannot find her?"

"He will keep searching. Swans are like us—like the Eldar: once the bond of husband and wife is made, it lasts until the end."

"But we are not always like that," she murmured, almost to herself. "Otherwise, I would not exist."

He did not respond immediately. Instead, he reached out to the swan, which now seemed lonely and abandoned.

"For the House of Curufinwë Fëanáro, it will always be so," he said at last. "My father demands it of us."

She began to speak but stopped, for the words seemed to catch in her throat. After a long pause, she stepped past him and knelt before the swan, her gaze locking with the bird's dark eyes. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft but resolute, almost solemn. "I believe you will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires."

...You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires...

The shift was sudden. One moment, the air was calm; the next, a biting cold descended with ruthless speed. Clouds thickened, mists rose, and darkness expanded in every direction, carrying a chill that felt alive—steeped in malice and cruelty. This was no mere winter's frost; it struck like a predator, infiltrating mind and body, numbing every sense. Blood and bone seemed to freeze; hope and laughter were extinguished, leaving only a terrible, hollow emptiness.

Like the Long Night of Valinor. Like the Darkness he had once faced outside the walls of Formenos.

What is this place? His hand instinctively moved to his side, but his sword was gone. A flicker of panic surged through him before reason reasserted itself. There was no immediate danger—no enemy visible in the silence surrounding him. Yet the oppressive stillness was as unsettling as the absence of warmth or life.

Gradually, out of the suffocating quiet, his keen Elven ears discerned a sound. Strange, yet hauntingly familiar. It was the same sound he had heard aboard the white ships near Araman—faint and distant then, drowned by howling winds.

Now it was unmistakable: the screeching, rolling, and crashing of ice.

Why am I here? For a moment, he stood motionless, uncertain. This must be the Helcaraxë—the Grinding Ice.

A light appeared then—dim and cold, but enough to illuminate his surroundings. Looking up, he saw the thick clouds parting, leaving a narrow gap through which distant stars glimmered, pale and remote. Taking a cautious step forward, he realized he was knee-deep in snow, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Towering icebergs loomed around him, their jagged walls rising treacherously like frozen fortresses. On this vast, desolate expanse, he seemed utterly alone.

The Grinding Ice... Yet he had come to Middle-earth by sea and had never set foot on this frozen wasteland in the North. Why am I here? And why does it feel so real?

He had no desire to linger. He must move. Taking another step, he froze as a new sound broke through the eerie stillness—a sound that had no place in this lifeless landscape: the thunder of hooves.

It was approaching fast, so fast that he believed it was the swiftest horse he had ever seen. He turned abruptly and saw a silver mare emerging from the night, galloping toward him. The rider wore a cloak as white as snow, billowing behind like wings in the cold wind. In the blink of an eye, the horse was almost upon him, but the rider showed no intention of slowing.

After such a long time, you have finally found your chance. The thought flashed across his mind like lightning tearing through the night sky. With this realization, despite his instincts, he remained still and closed his eyes. If you wish to punish me for my betrayal, come and finish it. After all, you have been waiting for this ever since you were a child.

But the blow never came. Instead, a sudden whinny rang out, close at hand. His eyes flew open just as the silver mare reared back, its front hooves slicing the air, the rider tightening the reins at the last moment.

Realization struck him. Without hesitation, he darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the falling hooves, then rushed forward to seize the reins, yanking the rider down by her waist—yes, her. He knew it was her. He knew it at first sight.

And this time, he would not see her as a little child.

The hood of her cloak slipped away, her dark hair tumbling free, caught by the wind and brushing against his face, momentarily blinding him. His arm encircled her waist, but it was no longer the thin, fragile frame of a child. She was tall and strong, yet slim and sinewy, her body honed by years of growth and discipline. He could feel the firmness of her muscles—strength and grace seamlessly intertwined. To his surprise, she did not struggle. In a moment that seemed to stretch forever, they stood unmoving, as if carved from stone. Then, he felt a hesitant touch on his face—cold and warm all at once. Before he could react, slender fingers brushed aside his hair, gliding past his ears. Her arms slipped around his neck, and she drew him into a deliberate embrace.

He shivered. This cannot be real. Holding his breath, he mustered the courage to meet her gaze, only to find, to his astonishment, not her but himself—his own image reflected in her eyes.

A beast weary of conflict. A fëa nearly torn from its hröa by deep, lasting pain.

He could not bear to look any longer. Closing his eyes and pushing away the strange thoughts, he took a deep breath, pulled her closer, and lowered his head.

Chapter 4.5 About Her

You said you loved me. Her thoughts brushed against the edge of his mind, gentle as spring's first thaw, fleeting as pieces of ice carried downstream to kiss the riverbank. Prove it to me.

He did not answer with words, for his actions spoke instead. As her arms tightened around his neck, he drew her closer still, his fingers threading through her dark hair to lift her face. Without hesitation, he kissed her—deeply, fervently, consumed by a hunger that knew no bounds. Her lips were cool, yet her breath was warm, and the taste of her lingered—sweet and intoxicating—beyond anything he had ever imagined. He had waited for this moment far too long—so long that he had nearly abandoned all hope. Yet unbidden love, unfulfilled longing, and the scars of severed ties had only drawn him deeper into the snare of their impossible bond. Now, the yearning and restraint he had buried in the depths of his memory reached their breaking point, like light and shadow locked in eternal combat, obliterating each other in a blaze of incandescent flame.

Even if this should burn him to ash, he would not care—for she was by his side.

At some unmarked moment, the frost-bound wilderness around them began to yield. Snow and ice melted away, revealing a tender patch of green, as though the flames rising between them had driven even the ever-present cold into reluctant retreat. Through the thin fabric of her clothing, he felt the rhythm of her heartbeat, its cadence syncing with his own. As their breaths intertwined, he tore away her cloak and cast it aside, lifting her effortlessly. She was tall for a nís, but his strength surpassed that of most of his kin. Gently, he laid her upon the soft grass, never loosening the embrace of his arms.

You will not flee from me again, he thought, his resolve hardening into vengeance as he kissed her once more. This time, she did not remain passive. Her response began tentatively, her thoughts grazing his mind, light as dandelion seeds adrift on the wind. Her tongue, teasing and elusive, flicked at his lips like a darting fish, slipping between reeds and always evading capture. Frustrated yet fascinated, he entwined her long hair around his fingers, holding her fast and denying her any chance of retreat. But when she realized she could not break free, she shifted, her playfulness transforming into sudden ferocity. Like a falcon striking from the sky, she bit down on his lip.

Sharp pain flared briefly before the taste of blood spread across his tongue. In that instant, he understood why wild beasts, once they had tasted blood, descended into frenzy. It was an instinct buried deep in the marrow of the soul—a primal, irresistible temptation that silenced all reason, leaving only raw, unrelenting desire.

Wordlessly, he began stripping away the final barriers between them, his movements no longer restrained. Fabric tore, seams snapped, and wool and linen fell away piece by piece until she lay against his bare chest. Her skin gleamed under the starlight, its radiance surpassing even her garments—smooth and flawless, like porcelain kissed by moonlight. So beautiful, and yet so cold. His heated palms trailed slowly down her icy back, and he could not fathom why she did not burn with the same fire that consumed him. Yet, if she noticed his confusion, she gave no sign. Like a curious cub, she brushed her lips lightly against his neck, her touch delicate but tinged with playful disdain. Now and then, her teeth grazed his throat, each touch deliberate, each a calculated provocation.

His mind felt split in two. One part screamed at him to pull away, warning that exposing such a vital weakness was folly. Yet the other urged him to surrender completely—to offer her the power of life and death over him, to yield without restraint, even if it led to his ruin.

But why should it matter? Everything about her was a puzzle he could never fully solve, yet none of it had ever lessened his love for her. Once, she had refused his vows, claiming she loved him only as a brother. And now, having changed her mind, she demanded proof of his devotion. Why, then, should he deny her?

Refusing to think further or hold back any longer, he took a deep breath and lifted her chin with a trembling hand, feeling himself drawn inevitably to the brink of no return.

I belong to you, he thought, summoning the last remnants of his fading reason and forcing her to meet his gaze. But you—do you belong to me?

Notes

This chapter was added in 2024, years after the original story was written, to complete it with more emotional touch. It is intended to be a "no means no" situation with ósanwe, and a demonstration of the power of "unwill".

Chapter 5. The Unforgiven: Part Two

All at once, he was wrenched back to reality, the thread binding him to the dream world severed as if by an unseen blade. He sat up abruptly, his eyes struggling to focus. When his surroundings came into view, he began to tremble.

Before him, there was only darkness, and in his hands, only emptiness.

He bit his lip and tasted blood. Closing his eyes in desperation, he tried to will himself back into the dream, to reclaim the vivid world he had seen so clearly moments before. The sensations lingered: the warmth of her body against his chest, the curve of her form in his arms. Without realizing it, he brushed his fingers across his lips, and in that instant, a surge of emotion overcame him. Loss, anger, sorrow, frustration, helplessness, and bitterness—all crashed over him like a relentless tide, carrying him in their grasp.

If it had been a dream, if it had only been a dream, why on Arda did it feel so achingly real?

He sprang out of bed. Action, not contemplation, was his nature. He had to go back, no matter what awaited him.

When he left the fortress of Rerir, he carried only his sword—the blade his father had made for each son of Fëanor. In the darkness before dawn, his white stallion raced across Thargelion like a streak of lightning, Huan running close behind as ever.

The journey back to Himlad lasted the entire day. When he reached the gates before the first light of dawn, his arrival startled the guards, though he wasted no time explaining. His words came quick and direct: "Where is she?"

Even as one who had seen the Light, he had overexerted himself. With little rest, a deep weariness began to build within him, true and heavy. But he ignored it. In the first light of the sun, his eyes blazed fiercely like burning stars.

"Do you mean Lady Aredhel, my lord?" The guard's casual tone tested the limits of his patience. For a fleeting moment, he considered grabbing the Elf by his cloak and forcing him to answer with proper urgency. Instead, he dismounted, his actions tightly controlled—a rare moment of restraint. "Yes. Did you not send word to Rerir that she is here? Aredhel Ar-Feiniel." Would you ask me next if I mean the White Lady of the Noldor?

"Lady Aredhel is gone."

The reins slipped slightly in his grasp as his entire body stiffened. His mind emptied, leaving only a vast stillness where thought should have been. The guard continued speaking, but his words seemed distant and strange.

"She left the day before yesterday, just before dawn. We tried to dissuade her, my lord, but she could not be convinced."

The day before yesterday. Just before dawn. When did I dream of her? How could it have felt so real?

"She often spoke of the boredom here, comparing it to the dullness of the Hidden City. Lady Aredhel frequently rode south to the forests and fields, always alone and refusing an escort, and she always returned safely. We expect no different this time."

You fool, this time will not be the same. It will never be the same again.

"Lord Celegorm?"

The voice did not stir him, but a familiar nudge from Huan did. He exhaled shakily, realizing for the first time that his hands trembled. Whether from sheer fatigue or the weight of something deeper, he could not tell.

Without a word, he mounted his horse once more. "Come with me," he said to Huan. Turning south, he left the stunned guard behind, ignoring the fatigue of his long ride.

...You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires...

He searched. He searched tirelessly, combing every inch of Himlad, but she was not there. She seemed to have simply vanished without a trace. He questioned every bird and beast he encountered along the way. He sent word to Amrod and Amras, even to Caranthir, asking if they had seen her. The answers were always the same: no. She had never gone to Thargelion or the forests in the south. Soon, he began to wonder if his people had fallen under some enchantment, for how could she have come? She should have stayed with her brother in a city no one could find—at least, that was what he had known. Why would she suddenly come alone, looking for him, when he had betrayed her at Losgar and shown no remorse?

Nevertheless, his heart told him she had come indeed.

He had once passed Nan Elmoth but dismissed the thought that she might be there. Eöl, the Dark Elf who dwelled in that sunless valley, was known for preferring the Dwarves over the Noldor—in fact, he hated the Noldor, of whom she was undoubtedly one.

If he had known she was there, he would have taken her back at any cost. He would have summoned all the warriors of Himlad under his command if necessary. He could have erased Nan Elmoth from the map of Beleriand and risked another kinslaying—kin? Who is kin to a Dark Elf?—if only he had known. If only he had known.

Eventually, he had to end the search. When he decided to give up, his mind seemed torn into two halves: one screamed, struggling with memories and dreams, while the other was detached, filled with bitter indifference.

- I should have gone back. I should have gone back as soon as I learned she came. The fact that she came to look for me was already beyond me. Why did I not trust her?

- You are deceiving yourself again, and you know it. How much longer will you live in lies? She has never given you what you desire. This time, did she not destroy your pride once more and leave you in pain and confusion? It was nothing but her perfect revenge.

At some point, the two voices merged into one.

You know what must be done, for you have handled it once before.

But why was it so difficult if he merely followed a well-established path? If experience could dull the pain, why was there not even the slightest numbness?

Fortunately, there was always time enough for everything to fade into oblivion.

Nearly thirty years of the Sun later, in the same peaceful days, he received an unusual request in Himlad.

"Lord Celegorm, we have two guests at the gate," his lieutenant reported. "They wish to see you but have refused to reveal their identities."

Having grown weary of his daily routine and now idly sitting behind his large oak desk, he looked up with a hint of curiosity. "Bold, but interesting."

"Would you see them then, my lord?"

"Why would I not?" He was not afraid of assassination. As was well known, it was extremely difficult to kill a son of Fëanor, something his eldest brother could certainly testify to. Moreover, his sword was at his side, and he was confident in his ability to use it effectively, should the need arise. "Send them in."

Soon after, the guests were shown into his chamber. He remained seated, studying them from head to toe, feeling no need to speak first. They wore grey cloaks, their faces hidden beneath grey hoods, but their bearing was proud and lordly, with a careless grace that marked them as likely lords of the Grey Elves.

He frowned. Thingol disliked the Noldor in general and loathed the House of Fëanor in particular. What could two Sindar of high status possibly want from a son of Fëanor?

Before beginning to question them, he suddenly felt a strange foreboding. For a moment, he could not help but stare at one of them intensely, caring nothing for courtesy, as those eyes hidden in the shadow were unnervingly familiar. Had he seen them before? And where had he seen them?

"Celegorm," said a familiar voice then. "It has been so long since last we met."

He jumped up so abruptly that he crashed into his desk with an audible thump, but he hardly felt any pain, as all his senses seemed to vanish at once. Right in front of him, the one who had spoken stepped forward, lowered the hood, and threw back the cloak. In that instant, snow-white was released from the bondage of deep grey, so bright that it was almost blinding in the midsummer sunlight.

Then their eyes met again.

"Irissë." He blurted out her name, as if he had never struggled so desperately to drive it from his mind. Her name. It was her. It was truly her. How had he convinced himself that he had forgotten her? Had he not seen her in his dreams, over and over? And now she was here—no less beautiful than in his memory, hardly changed at all.

No. His senses began to return. Something is different. Perhaps it was the way she called him by his Sindarin name. It sounded strange coming from her, almost as though it were a sign marking the end of everything that had passed.

But how could there be an end when there had never been a beginning? And if there truly was no beginning, why did his dream of her feel more real than any truth he had ever known?

"You look unchanged," she interrupted his tumultuous thoughts after fixing her eyes on him for a moment. "Yet for us, no change is expected."

The magic dissipated. Ages ago, on the green plains of Valinor, she had spoken those same words, also after a long separation. Then, she had rejected him with mockery, later offering an apology he had refused with pride—pride that was marred ever after.

Stop lying to yourself. A dream is a dream, nothing more.

He straightened and regained some composure. Only then did he notice her companion, standing quietly behind her: a handsome boy, tall and strong, fair-skinned and dark-haired like her, in every way appearing to be one of the Noldor. Still looking at her, he gestured casually toward the boy. "Is he your guar—"

"No," she interrupted him. "Not only my guard. He is my son."

At first, her words made no sense. With great effort, piece by piece, he put them together. As realization dawned, a chill seeped into his bones. He stared at her again, and this time, everything fell into place—how could he have been so blind? In her eyes, he saw the shadow of it, and in her voice, he heard the echo of it: a bond eternal, irreversible and unbreakable, in life or death, together or apart, enduring as long as Arda itself, until the end of days.

He had once wished to share a bond like that with her, but she had first refused him relentlessly—and then given it to someone else, without even informing him as a cousin and friend.

He looked at the boy, then back at her. She met his gaze directly, proud and stubborn, with a challenge in her eyes. Suddenly, he felt detached from the world, as though something shielded his heart from reality, like smoke wrapping around fire.

"Celegorm, this is M—" she started.

"Wait, Aredhel," he snapped. "If I wish to know someone's name, I should ask him directly." Watching her closely, he added, "So I would not be rude."

I would forget nothing you have said to me.

All at once, the dream of her surged through his mind, more vivid than ever. It thrust a spear of pain into his chest, the point piercing his twitching heart, and he wondered why he still suffered if he could no longer feel.

She had not expected his words and was rendered speechless. He saw the look on her face and recognized parts of it: surprise, hesitation, and compassion—no, not compassion, for there was none. Then what was it? Could it be regret?

"Lord Celegorm," a third voice broke the silence. "I am Maeglin."

The boy's voice was deep, melodic, and persuasive—well beyond his years. Such a voice could serve its owner as a powerful tool, something he had witnessed before in his own family. But what truly caught his attention were the boy's eyes: dark, not of the Calaquendi, yet startlingly perceptive and piercing—sharp indeed. Instantly, he found himself hating those eyes. A single glance could unearth unguarded thoughts and expose secrets buried deep. He hated those eyes and hated even more their owner.

You should not have existed, he thought. You should not have existed. In the scarlet wound freshly torn in his heart, those dark eyes planted seeds of dark flames.

"My father is Eöl of Nan Elmoth," the boy continued.

Eöl? The Dark Elf hiding in the shadowed forests of Nan Elmoth, ever hostile toward the Noldor? No. Deep inside, dark flames sparked and crackled, licking at the redness around. It cannot be. You should not have existed. You should not have existed.

But outwardly, he remained had not spent years with Curufin without learning something. "Did your father send you here?"

"No, my lord. On the contrary, we disobeyed him." The boy then gave a full account of what had transpired—plain but precise. They had wished to return to the Hidden City but were forbidden to do so. Several days ago, Eöl had accepted an invitation and left for Nogrod to join the Dwarves for a feast, giving them their chance to escape. However, Eöl's servants kept a close watch, so they claimed their destination was Himlad to avoid suspicion. Even so, Eöl would soon learn of their whereabouts, and his own horse was faster than theirs.

He fixed his eyes on her while the boy spoke. The echo of words flowed past his heart like cool water, easing his urges and suppressing his anger. As the dark flames within him stopped spreading, his mood softened. Am I mistaken then? Since you wish to escape from him, does that mean you have regretted?

She did not flinch; instead, she held her head high. Once you said the House of Fëanor would never change their hearts. Now I say the House of Fingolfin is no different. I leave him now for the freedom of my son and myself, which has nothing to do with my heart.

He read her thoughts, for she set no guard around them. She wants me to know. Instantly, dark flames flared anew, igniting from blood and flesh, whirling and blasting like a dying ember fed with fresh fuel. So this is how she takes her revenge on me, her real revenge.

Miraculously, he kept his face calm. When the boy finished, he even managed a smile. "As my kin, you will certainly get good horses here—actually, the best ones."

"Thank you, my lord," the boy said, lowering his head.

You should not have existed. Behind the desk, he clenched his fists until all the joints of his fingers turned pale. You should not have existed. Yet, he heard his own voice calling for his lieutenant and issuing an order, as though nothing had happened. "See to all the needs of Lady Aredhel and...Maeglin. Now."

His lieutenant, who had been waiting outside, nodded and opened the door for her and her son. She glanced at him before moving, but he paid no heed. Though his gaze remained on her, everything seemed to scatter into fragments before his eyes, illogical and meaningless. Indifferently, he watched her and her son. She turned to leave, lingering a moment at the door, but she did not look back. Her son simply followed her out.

He watched until the door closed behind them. Before its sound faded, he had drawn his sword, teeth clenched. A familiar urge overwhelmed him. His heart screamed silently in the raging dark fire, and once again, he understood what his father must have felt when he made the decision to rebel against the Valar. They both had lost the most important things in their lives. The only difference was that, in the madness of rage and grief, his father had believed vengeance could still be achieved without aid, while he knew, with bitter clarity, that what he desired had fallen utterly out of his grasp, with no hope of reclaiming it.

Notes

Thus ends my speculation of why Celegorm lingered at Rerir when Aredhel went to Himlad to find him. According to The Silmarillion, she had stayed in Himlad for months before she got lost in Nan Elmoth.

Aredhel's second visit to Himlad was not recorded in The Silmarillion. The story here referred to a text in HoMe 11, in which Celegorm offered not only good horses but also a promise of 'other aid'.

Chapter 6. The Unforgiven: Part Three

When the door opened again, it was Curufin who entered. With a single glance, he assessed the wreckage in the chamber, but instead of commenting on it, he said simply, "They are leaving."

"I know," he replied, now seated once more behind his desk, sword still in hand. I do not need you to remind me. I was the one who let them go.

"And you gave the order to provide them with our swiftest horses?"

"Yes." What choice do I have?

Curufin approached the desk, carefully avoiding the shards on the floor, some of which gleamed dangerously sharp. "I suppose you have heard of this Eöl?"

"Do not tell me you have not!" he growled.

"Do not vent your anger on me, my brother," Curufin said, his tone as calm as ever. "This is your affair."

He admitted it with his silence, and Curufin continued. "And if you know something of Eöl, you must also know that he will not yield easily."

He looked up, meeting his brother's gaze.

"Do you prefer to face him yourself, or leave him to me?" Curufin asked softly.

Subtle as it was, he detected a trace of malice in Curufin's tone and suddenly understood what his brother was implying. It was as though an icy wave washed over him, dispelling his sullen mood and leaving him agitated. He could not stop himself from imagining the grim satisfaction he might feel in driving that Dark Elf out of his shadowy lair. Call me kinslayer if you will—I will not deny it. I have borne the name before and will not shrink from living up to it again, should it come to that. Having already spilled so much blood, what was one more drop to him?

But as he looked at his brother, he saw more from Curufin's eyes than was spoken: Make your decision wisely, and you will have my support.

For the second time in his life, he pondered. As his initial impulses subsided, a new plan—unbidden yet irresistible—began to take shape in the depths of his mind.

"I will leave him to you, Kurvo," he said at last.

Curufin raised an eyebrow.

"If he dares to come near our land, take him," he continued. "You may question him, mock him, insult him. But afterward, spare his life and release him."

"Are you certain?" Curufin asked, despite the clarity of the instructions.

He carefully sheathed his sword, his fingers running over the smooth surface of the blade, as polished as stone—a fatal weapon could well hide its thirst for blood. "We can do better than to slay one who already accuses us of kinslaying, can we not?"

Both of them knew he was lying. Nevertheless, Curufin acknowledged it with a knowing nod. "As you wish, Turko. And good luck with whatever task lies ahead."

He found her near the gate, preparing to leave with her son. A few belongings had already been loaded onto the horses provided for their journey. His orders had been carried out well, for these horses were his swiftest, swift enough to race the wind.

She nodded in greeting, and he responded with a smile. Smiling was easier than he had anticipated. He approached the horses, murmuring softly into each of their ears in turn. Catching her inquisitive look, he smiled again, silently relieved that Huan was not present. "Nothing but a few encouraging words," he said.

"How could I possibly forget!" she laughed and turned to her son. "Remember what I told you, Maeglin? Lord Celegorm knows animals very well—better, in fact, than he knows people."

Her old jest did not have the same effect on him, and so he feigned offense. "Aredhel, I do not take that as a compliment."

"Not indeed," she replied with a mischievous smile. "But it is not without truth."

Instead of retorting, his attention was drawn to her grey cloak. Woven by the hands of the Sindar, it was renowned for its ability to hide the wearer from hostile eyes. He picked up a corner of the fabric, examined it briefly, and let it fall. "You need not wear this anymore. As I recall, you clung to your habits even when the leopards judged you a poor hunter."

"Pardon me, my lord," the boy interrupted politely. "But my father is far from careless. There is no harm in being cautious."

"And we will give him no chance to demonstrate his care this time," he replied, addressing the boy's concern but directing his words to her. Seeing the look that passed over her face, he had to laugh. "No, we mean no harm to him. We will merely delay him, so you will have enough time to reach your city safely."

She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped forward unexpectedly, embracing him and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Turko, hantalë." (1)

He froze, momentarily at a loss. He heard her instructing her son to put away the grey Sindarin cloak and retrieve her white Noldorin mantle. He watched as she draped it across her shoulders, reclaiming her well-earned title: the White Lady of the Noldor. Without another word, she mounted her horse, nodded to him, and set off.

As she approached the gate with her son, he finally shook off his shock, and for a fleeting moment, he nearly changed his mind. He wanted to call them back, to reconsider his decision. But in the end, he remained silent. The cold wind sweeping down from Himring gradually stole away the warmth her lips had left on his cheek.

Their horses would neigh when they reached their destination. Her white mantle would be a beacon, impossible to miss.

And then Eöl would find them.

It was Curufin who secured the outcome. At the fords of Aros, Curufin's riders intercepted Eöl as expected. Curufin humiliated him first, dismissing him with mockery, fully aware that someone like Eöl would never turn back.

"In the end, I suggested he return to his dwellings in the dark forests," Curufin said upon his return to Himlad. "I told him that if he now pursues those who love him no more, he will never return there."

"So you deliberately made him more determined to go after them?" he asked, perplexed.

"Yes," Curufin confirmed without hesitation. "That is the only reaction someone like him would have."

He had no reason to question Curufin's judgment—his brother had always understood the minds of others better than he. Yet after Curufin left, he found himself dwelling on those words. If pursuing those who love you no more is a path of no return, then what is it to retaliate against one who loves you not?

Several days later, in the darkness before dawn, he awoke abruptly, though no nightmare had disturbed him. Something was wrong—he could feel it in every fiber of his being, from head to heel, in every drop of his blood. Anxiously, he stared into the void, his restlessness mounting, until a voice drifted into his consciousness, slipping effortlessly past the unseen boundary between reality and dream.

Indeed, you know little about people, which is why I am the one who comes to bid you farewell.

For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. Cold sweat broke out across his body, and he shivered, his thoughts frantically probing the depths of his mind for the long-buried figure he had once struggled so hard to forget. Yet everything seemed to fade and wither, like a sandy shore eroded by relentless waves. He searched and searched, clinging desperately to the memory of a voice that had once been so vivid.

At least that voice. You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires.

But again, he found her not.

Nan Elmoth lay to the south of Himlad. After crossing the fords of Celon, he halted near the bank, his gaze fixed on the dark, forest-covered valley ahead. Beside him, the hound of Valinor shook the water from its thick fur.

"Enjoy yourself nearby." He dismounted. His stallion snuffled softly and wandered toward a patch of grass.

He looked up again, surveying the forest. Even from this distance, he could sense its ancientness. The trees of Nan Elmoth were the tallest and darkest in all Beleriand; it was said that Melian the Maia had once walked there in the twilight of Middle-earth. Here, beneath those shadowed boughs, she had met Elu Thingol, and it was here that they had gazed into each other's eyes as long years passed, measured only by the wheeling of the stars.

A fascinating tale, and nothing more.

He was dressed simply, like an ordinary Noldorin hunter: no ornate armor, no emblems of his house, no embroidery on his clothing. He carried only a bow and quiver of arrows, along with his sword. Though the sword was far from plain or ordinary, he kept it carefully concealed beneath his cloak, ensuring it would not easily draw attention.

Even so, he was uncertain what he hoped to find in these woods. He knew Eöl was not here—his guards had seen no sign of the Dark Elf returning from the west. As Curufin had said, a way of no return.

Then what am I doing here?

A sharp pain shot through him. Almost instinctively, he reached into his cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword, the pressure of the embedded gems digging into his palm. Cursing himself once more, he tried to banish her image from his mind. Yet it will be in vain, for you cannot and will not forget her. Fool—you loved her, truly you did. But when your love proved doomed, unreturned, you chose to destroy her. Not once, but twice, until at last you succeeded.

He took a deep breath and released his grip on the sword. He had journeyed far from Himlad and did not intend to let himself be consumed by wild thoughts.

"Stay here," he told the hound.

Huan looked up at him, concern evident in his gaze.

"Stay here," he repeated firmly. "I know what I am doing."

The hound obeyed, though reluctantly. As he set off, he could feel Huan's eyes watching him until he passed into the shadowed woods and disappeared from sight.

At first, he wandered aimlessly. Tall trees loomed overhead, and low bushes crowded the forest floor, most of which he did not recognize. Above, branches and leaves swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, as though the forest itself moved to a timeless cadence. The sunless woods seemed to hold time still. Occasionally, he heard the distant song of nightingales, but their voices were faint and elusive, impossible to trace. Maybe the tales are true, he thought. There is magic in this forest.

His steps must have been louder than he realized, or perhaps he had underestimated the vigilance of the forest's inhabitants. When a dark figure stepped out from the bushes to block his path, he started but refrained from reaching for his sword. It was a Grey Elf, clad in black—clearly a servant of Eöl.

"You are a Golodh," the Elf concluded at a glance. It was no surprise, for his eyes bore the light of the Calaquendi, made all the more striking by the gloom here.

He nodded. "I came here pursuing my quarry but lost my way."

The Elf looked him over, scanning him from head to toe, and seemed satisfied. "I will lead you out. But be cautious next time, for Lord Eöl has no love for the Golodhrim."

"Lord"... who made him a lord? "So it is true that my people are unwelcome in Nan Elmoth," he remarked, his tone more natural than he had expected.

"Yes," the Elf replied, brushing aside a curtain of vines to reveal a concealed trail. "With the sole exception of Lady Aredhel. But even she must obey Lord Eöl's laws."

Her name. He had not expected to hear it so soon, and the Elf's words about her almost caught him off guard. Obey? She obeyed no one, save her father. Yet, to his own surprise, he mastered himself and followed the Elf down the trail. "If I am not mistaken, did you mean Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady?"

"That is what your people call her," the Elf replied. "Here, she is Lord Eöl's wife."

"I suppose you intended to say the Lady of Nan Elmoth," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"She is," the Elf said, oblivious to the shift in his tone. "Yet she obeys him nonetheless. She is not permitted to go to sunny places or to leave here alone."

In his mind, these words conjured a vivid image: a maiden, once free and untamed, now confined in a narrow, lightless valley, withering like a flower plucked from the sun. "No," he blurted, the first word that came to him. "No."

The Elf turned to look at him. "It is the truth. She chose to stay, knowing all his laws."

The vision shifted. Now she wandered alone, beneath canopies so dense that no sunlight could pierce them, in a forest steeped in ancient magic. She was astray and weary, yet unafraid—why should she fear? As one of the House of Finwë, she had always been fearless. But unseen eyes followed her, darker than the night itself. In those eyes, suspicion and conflict smoldered, until desire stirred and took flame in their depths.

"No. She could not have chosen to stay," he said, stubbornly repeating himself despite every effort to remain composed. "She could not have been willing to stay." Like one drowning, clutching at a straw, he held fast to this last hope.

"But Lady Aredhel could not have been unwilling," said the Elf.

He reached into his cloak. Do not continue. I wish to listen no more.

The Elf continued. "Otherwise, she would have perished, which is the nature of the Eld—"

The Elf never finished the word. Against the craftsmanship of the mightiest smith of the Noldor, the galvorn mail was no more than a fragile shell. A sharp blade pierced through it effortlessly, slipping past the ribs and driving straight into the heart.

"I wish to listen no more," he said softly to the Elf, whose gaze was already unfocused. With a swift motion, he jerked the sword free. Blood splattered across his fingers, wrist, and even his face. "For she could not have done that, as I said."

In the last light of the day, the great hound of Valinor waited patiently, silent and unmoving. As the sky darkened, a wind arose, and he sniffed the air. Suddenly, he stood, his gaze fixed on the forest's obscured boundary, his body taut with anxiety and vigilance. Against the deepening gloom of the trees, a dim figure slowly emerged, sword sheathed, cloak flapping in the wind. Yet the hound remained alert, for he smelled blood.

His master and friend approached at a measured pace, stopping before him and holding his gaze. For a long, immeasurable moment, they stared at one another, until at last the hound looked away. He had never seen his prince so shaken—not even long ago at the Haven of the Swans, when they had both been bathed in blood.

Almost simultaneously, the proud prince dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the hound's neck. "I cannot believe it, Huan. I cannot believe it. She could not have lived. She should not have lived..."

At these words, the hound growled and shuddered. For a moment, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. But feeling those strong fingers digging into his fur and warm liquid dripping onto his back, he finally lowered his head. In the sunset, the prince and the hound were both painted an ominous red, like that of a dying fire.

Fire.

Not the fire of forges, ovens, or hearths they had known for ages. On a moonless winter night, Morgoth suddenly unleashed his long-prepared strength. The onrush of malevolent fire was so swift that, within hours, it consumed all the green grass and sweet waters of Ard-galen, igniting the forests on the highlands of Dorthonion and the eastern slopes of Ered Wethrin.

Thus began the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

As soon as he left the battlefront, he received tidings from the east. Glaurung, the Golden Terror, had attacked the weakest link in the March of Maedhros, and the Gap of Maglor was lost. All the lands between the great and little rivers of Gelion had been ravaged by dragon fire, and Maglor was retreating to the fortress of Himring to join Maedhros.

So this is the consequence of relying on others for our war, he thought. If it had been us who faced this monster decades ago, we might have cut off his head and made a true Dragon-helm from it.

The tidings had been ill since the battle began. Angrod and Aegnor must have been hard pressed. He and Curufin had successfully defended the Pass of Aglon, but they would not have held their ground for so long if he had not immediately sent archers to the cliffs above the pass when the fire started. Worse still, there was no news from the west.

He mounted his steed once more. From where he stood, he could survey the battlefield near the northern entry of the pass. The enemy had been attacking relentlessly for five days. Orcs swarmed toward the pass like an endless dark tide, surging forward despite the rain of arrows and stones, trampling the corpses of their own kind, which had piled high on the northern side. The battle had even once drawn near his own standard, forcing him into combat. Huan guarded his side as ever, their seamless cooperation destroying foes beyond count.

Now, he gazed at the northern entry, wondering if Morgoth had abandoned his efforts to take this place. It is more difficult to defeat us. His troops were busy sharpening weapons, changing posts, and tending to the wounded, aware of how precious these quiet hours were.

Quiet, but too quiet. Then he realized something was amiss. Too late. The enemy struck again before he could investigate, and this time it was not Orcs but Balrogs emerging from smoke and ash. Shadow and fire tore through the pass, and Elven warriors fell like leaves.

As he instructed his herald to send aid, Curufin hastened back, covered in blood and dust. "The fortress of Rerir has fallen. Moryo is retreating to the South."

He whirled around and stared at his brother. "Then the last hope of reinforcement is gone."

Curufin nodded grimly.

It did not take long for him to decide. "Prepare to retreat," he commanded his herald. "We cannot hold this place on our own."

He should have felt bitter, for he was defeated as well, and his pride as a great commander was marred. Yet he found himself strangely indifferent. After all, was it really so unusual? He had tasted defeat before, many times. This was merely another entry on the list.

His herald hesitated. "Which route should we take, my lord?"

"Head southwest," he replied flatly.

"Then we will reach the borders of Doriath soon..."

"Which is exactly why we take that route!" he snapped. "We follow their borders!" At least we are certain no attack will come from Doriath.

Thus they retreated. Along the borders of Doriath, away from the Hidden Kingdom protected by the power of Melian, they passed through woods and plains towards the southwest, for there lay a kingdom far from the frontline, founded by their cousins of the House of Finarfin: Nargothrond.

When the running water of Narog came into sight, they were met warnings.

"Halt, and identify yourselves."

Cold light glinted off arrowheads mounted on drawn bows, as countless archers revealed themselves on the high ground. They bore the golden emblems of the House of Finarfin; in fact, their captain was golden-haired.

He did not bother to speak—there was no need. The banners of the House of Fëanor flew high behind him, bright in the sunlight despite the stains of blood and dust.

It was his herald who replied: "You are speaking to those you should have welcomed with courtesy: Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, of the House of Fëanor."

The captain gestured for the archers to lower their bows. "Forgive us for the necessary caution, in such dark days."

"Take us to your king," Curufin said, in his ever-steady tone.

Led by the captain, they ascended the hills of High Faroth and crossed the rapid waters of Narog. Their keen Elven sight revealed well-hidden doors on the west bank, behind which countless caves lay, crafted by the hands of the Dwarves after the fashion of Menegroth in Doriath. From afar, they spotted Finrod standing before the Great Gate, a silver crown upon his golden hair. To their surprise, the eldest son of the House of Finarfin appeared pale and weak, as though gravely wounded. Only later would they learn that, had it not been for the aid of a mortal named Barahir, the King of Nargothrond would have perished at the Fen of Serech.

Then he saw their cousin's smile. Noble yet warm, like a campfire on a starless night.

"Welcome, my kin. For you, the gate of Nargothrond is always open."

Notes

(1) Quenya: 'thank you'.

I have wondered why the horses had neighed and thus betrayed Aredhel and Maeglin when they approached the Encircling Mountains, especially after I read one text in HoMe 11, in which they were given to them by Celegorm. So here is an explanation I worked out.

Celegorm's later visit to Nan Elmoth is not recorded in any formal accounts. It was my creation.

Chapter 7. Sad But True: Part One

When he caught sight of a dark figure moving through the woods, he was alone in the wild.

He had left Nargothrond without a guard. As he made his way out, an unusual silence surrounded him. People whispered among themselves until they noticed his presence. Curufin will have to deal with this, he thought, lifting his head high. Meeting their gazes directly, he stared back until, one by one, they lowered their eyes.

But his steed knew him better. The stallion maintained a steady pace until they were beyond the sight of others, then broke into a gallop once they were far enough from the gate. As the hooves thundered against the ground, his hair was swept back by the cold wind, yet his face remained grim, his eyes smoldering with rage.

Thingol had not replied. As time passed, it became increasingly clear that Elwë Singollo, sheltered by the power of his wife, would not accept his proposal. Holding his daughter above all else, the King of Doriath was unwilling to give her hand easily. The two suitors vying for her had undoubtedly pushed him beyond his limits: one, a mortal he had long despised; the other, a Fëanorian he had always loathed. He might have laughed at the irony, had Thingol's daughter not fled from Nargothrond, taking Huan with her.

On both sides of the path, hills and creeks blurred past. The barren woods of late winter mingled with patches of snow, forming a tapestry of dark browns and pale whites. He had not noticed when the sun disappeared behind the clouds, but the dimming light suddenly made him wonder if he was, once again, on a mission doomed to fail.

She was found missing one morning by his brother. For the first time in his life, he saw Curufin lose his composure.

"It was your dog! He aided Thingol's daughter to escape!" roared his brother. When he asked if Curufin was referring to Huan, his brother stared at him in disbelief.

But how could Huan have possibly done this? Did he not know Huan better than anyone? Of course, he knew that Huan had liked Thingol's daughter and disapproved of his plans for her, but Huan had always been loyal to him. It was for him that Huan had left the Blessed Realm and joined the exile of the Noldor. From Alqualondë to Araman, from Losgar to Nan Elmoth—wherever he went, whatever he did, Huan had always been at his side. Why would Huan abandon him for Thingol's daughter, to rescue a short-lived mortal the hound had never even known?

Nevertheless, it was undeniable. Thingol's daughter was gone, and so was Huan. As soon as their absence was discovered, he led his guards in a search but found no trace. That was hardly surprising—for Huan was no ordinary hound.

When he returned to Nargothrond, his brother was waiting for him in his chamber. Curufin had recovered from his tempest of rage. "It is no accident. Your dog devised a plan and executed every step."

He frowned as he listened, though his attention was distracted by a dull headache. He had not slept well the night before, for that dream, the dream about her, had haunted him, refusing to let him rest.

"Your dog returned her cloak to her—I suppose you remember her cloak?—and chose a secret passage that is unknown to most."

So Huan truly betrayed me to help her. Despite his strange fatigue, he felt himself on the brink of venting his wrath and frustration. But Curufin spoke again before he could, his voice icy and measured.

"I have been wondering about one thing, though: How on Arda did your dog manage to unlock the door to her chamber?"

At that, his anger faded. Bracing himself, he expected reproach, but Curufin did not blame him. His brother simply sighed and left.

It was obvious where Thingol's daughter would go: Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where Sauron dwelt, for that was also where Finrod and Beren were held captive. Along with Huan, she would attempt to rescue them—and would likely die in the hopeless effort. To his own surprise, he found himself far less indifferent than he had expected. Will they survive? Will they succeed? he wondered. Or will they return?

He cut off this train of thought as soon as he felt a headache. Whether they do or not, I will leave it to Curufin.

And Curufin demonstrated his great talent for leadership. Rumors about Thingol's daughter were managed so deftly that only a handful of insiders knew the truth. Alongside Curufin, he continued to openly scorn Orodreth's authority. Watching the Prince Regent of Nargothrond bow his golden head in unwilling submission, he felt his pride and confidence return. Let Thingol's daughter go. I need neither her nor Doriath. And I do not need you either, Huan. You are merely a dog. Without you, Nargothrond is still in my hands.

Yet every time he saw those who had once sworn allegiance to the House of Finarfin standing tame and silent in the great hall, he could not ignore the voice whispering deep in his mind: Everything you have done so far leads to an unexpected end.

It did not take long for the signs of his foreboding to manifest. News arrived from the borders of strange creatures attempting to enter their lands; soon after, more reports followed, confirming the details. He concluded it must be another scheme of Sauron to spy on Nargothrond and began preparing a host to put an end to it. However, before they could set off to confront the supposed enemies, new tidings arrived, throwing everything into disarray. These strange creatures were not servants of Sauron, but Elves—captives from the Dagor Bragollach, enslaved by the Enemy. Now, they had escaped from Sauron's dungeons, for an Elven maiden and a great hound had defeated Sauron the Abhorred, driving him away, and the island once defiled by evil and sorcery had been cleansed.

Moreover, it was said that Finrod had not been killed upon his capture. According to the tales, the eldest son of Finarfin had fought Sauron with a song of power. Though defeated and unidentified, he was cast into a deep pit along with his eleven companions. No one knew what had transpired in that darkness, but when the Elven maiden arrived, Finrod had just passed away.

The entire kingdom of Nargothrond was thrown into shock at the news. The previously official announcement of Finrod's death now clashed in every regard with these astonishing accounts. Rumors spread like wildfire, and speculation surged like an unrelenting tide. He even overheard some careless conversations himself:

"But did Lord Celegorm not fall in love with Lady Lúthien?"

"Which might be exactly why he made no attempt to rescue Beren or King Finrod."

Although most of the speculations were clearly absurd, as time passed, some came disturbingly close to the truth. Thingol's daughter must have known who was imprisoned in Sauron's dungeons, and Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, whom she had trusted, must have learned her reasons for leaving Doriath. But instead of aiding her, the two sons of Fëanor chose to spread the word that King Finrod was dead and claim the kingship of Nargothrond. Such actions amounted to treason—kin unto kin. Even if they had no such intention, their failure to attempt a rescue would still mark them as cowards: warriors who styled themselves as valiant, yet less courageous than a maiden who had never wielded a sword.

For the second time, the realm mourned for Finrod. He did not fully understand the impact these events had on himself and his brother, but he could see the whispers circulating everywhere. Even those in his own following seemed unsettled. When his herald, either too bold or too foolish, voiced his doubts in his presence, he jumped up as a renowned hasty-riser, but refrained from venting his anger. Instead, he fetched his horse and announced he would take a solitary ride. Of course, his impulsive decision raised concerns, but he ignored them, driven by spite and mistrust.

Fools! You expect me to go rescue Finrod, the greatest fool of all? If I had commanded you to risk your lives attacking Sauron's Isle, would that have satisfied you? "Cowards", you call us. But who are the real cowards? Merely by speaking, Curufin instilled such fear into your hearts that you have abandoned open battle ever since. Who are the cowards, indeed? And who fought on the borders of this realm, driving evil creatures from our lands? Instead of appreciating what we have done to spare your lives, you call us cowards? So eager to die, may Morgoth's evil fire consume you all!

The reckless curse startled him back to his senses. He had no intention of wishing Morgoth success. Shaken, he took a deep breath and told his horse to slow. Just then, he caught sight of a dark figure moving through the woods.

He seized his bow in the blink of an eye but did not notch an arrow, for he noticed his horse remained calm. The stallion stood relaxed, though with a trace of excitement, as if recognizing an old friend.

Sitting tall upon his steed, he waited. The dark figure reappeared, this time not retreating but stepping forward slowly from the trees' cover. When it came to a stop before him, he finally met its gaze—no, his gaze, for those were eyes he had known so well.

It was Huan.

For a moment, a powerful impulse gripped him—the urge to leap from the horse, rush forward, and embrace his companion, regardless of everything he had resolved. If he had convinced himself that Huan's departure had not troubled him, he had been in denial, for how could he sever a bond so deeply ingrained or forget it had ever existed? All his attempts to bury it had only deepened it further.

But he remained perfectly still, expressionless, bow in hand. Inside, the tender spot recently exposed was consumed by bitter flames—scorching, crackling—as his pride slowly gained the upper hand.

So, you are back. Does she no longer need you? Or have you grown tired of her at last?

The hound did not flinch, meeting his gaze with eyes that glimmered faintly in the dim light—eyes filled with sorrow and dignity, yet free of regret.

It was only then that he noticed the unhealed wounds and fresh scars, half-hidden beneath the thick fur. He had never seen Huan injured like this—not since they first began fighting side by side. So you truly fought Sauron for her? he thought, his anger suddenly slipping away. He wanted to shout into the hound's ears: But I would never allow you to jeopardize yourself in such a manner! How could you have risked it all for her? How could you be so stubborn, so foolish?

But in the end, he said none of it. Instead, he turned and said, "Then, come with me."

He would never admit that he was quietly grateful for the sound of Huan's paws breaking through the half-melted snow behind him.

Huan's return seemed to stir little notice in Nargothrond. He left the hound in the care of his household healers, though the look in Huan's eyes lingered in his mind, haunting him as he made his way to his quarters. As he passed Curufin's chamber, the sound of raised voices caught his attention.

"I have to ask you—there is no one else to ask!"

From the closed door, it was clear his nephew was shouting at his brother.

"Is it true, what they are saying about what happened?"

He could not hear his brother's reply. Despite Celebrimbor's fervor, Curufin kept his voice low—calm and composed as ever. With no intention of intervening, he simply walked on, knowing better than to lecture his brother on persuading the youngest prince of the House of Fëanor.

Returning to his quarters, he settled near the window. He did not need rest, but peace and quiet would do him good. As he made himself comfortable, he caught a faint sound from outside, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come.

Gradually, his thoughts began to drift. He slipped into the space between reality and its many shadows, navigating through an endless void, knowing what he sought yet uncertain where to find it.

He knew he would see her there, and he did. Ahead of him, she appeared, dressed in white and silver as always, with her back to him. Accustomed now to the ache her presence brought, he dared to study her more closely. Instantly, he noticed a difference. Her figure seemed blurred, as if Time itself had swept it away. Can such a proud and unruly fire truly burn out? he wondered. Or will I never know, for her fire—though it feels familiar to mine—is never quite the same?

As if sensing his gaze, she turned.

He gasped and opened his eyes, his breath catching and his heart faltering—partly from surprise, partly from fear. It was not her. The face before him was sad, yet serene, more beautiful than any he had ever seen. It belonged to Thingol's daughter.

Still recovering, he heard a knock at the door. To his surprise, the door opened without his acknowledgment. He sprang to his feet, fully prepared to rebuke whoever dared to intrude in such a manner, but was taken aback by the sight of those who entered. Though dressed as guards, they were unfamiliar—not even his own people.

"Lord Celegorm, King Orodreth requests your presence in the Great Hall."

When he strode into the Great Hall of Nargothrond, it seemed as though everyone in the stronghold had been summoned. Most were of the House of Finarfin, with the rest being his own followers and those of his brother. Yet, at that moment, their allegiances seemed set aside, for all were silent—an oppressive silence that carried an unspoken threat. As he walked through the gathered crowd toward the High Seat, countless eyes tracked his every move, the weight of their gazes pressing heavily upon him.

When he stopped before the dais, all movement ceased, save for the flickering shadows cast on the stone walls by the candle lights. His brother was already there; if surprised, Curufinwë Atarinkë showed no sign of it. The favorite son of Fëanor seemed indifferent to the tension around him, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on one figure—the figure standing before the High Seat, a silver crown gleaming upon his golden hair.

Is that Finrod?!

No, it was not Finrod. It was Orodreth—King Orodreth, as those insolent guards had said. He could not help but sneer. If Orodreth thought a crown made him a king, he must have lost his wits. As the second son of Finarfin, Orodreth had always been a pale shadow of his elder brother: less noble, less wise, weaker in mind, and far less fair in appearance. Some were born to follow, not to lead.

But just as he stepped onto the dais, the Prince Regent spoke. "You have no right here."

He caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision and immediately recognized seasoned warriors, fully armed. From where they stood, they posed no immediate threat, but their stance was unmistakable: stay where you are.

Something was amiss. Only then did he turn his full attention to Orodreth—a cousin he had long scorned and dismissed. To his astonishment, the Prince Regent of Nargothrond no longer appeared as the weakling he had remembered. A fire burned within the golden-haired prince—a fire unmistakable to a son of Fëanor. It was the same fire he had seen in Finrod, who, in this very hall, had once cast the silver crown of Nargothrond at his feet.

Curufin was the one to break the silence. "If it is the throne to which you refer, Lord Orodreth, I am afraid you have no more claim to it than my brother does."

The Prince Regent responded with conceit. "When the King departed, he entrusted this kingdom to me, appointing me as its Prince Regent. Now that my brother and king is gone, by right, I shall take up the kingship, and I will never allow those who conspired against him to usurp the kingdom he founded."

Curufin raised an eyebrow. "Who conspired against him?"

Orodreth did not falter. "You, and your brother."

These words stirred the entire hall into an uproar. Amid the deafening noise, someone pushed through the crowd, ascended the dais, and came to stand beside Curufin.

"Lord Orodreth, you have made a serious accusation." Celebrimbor, his brother's son, managed to keep his voice calm, though his eyes gleamed with anxiety. "Do you have evidence?"

"I have a witness," Orodreth replied, his tone softening. "Whose integrity, I believe, even your uncle cannot deny."

"Bring him forth, then!" He watched Curufin and Celebrimbor, marveling at how his brother had swayed his nephew. He did not expect to be named, and his impatience flared at the unexpected reference.

But Orodreth gave him a strange look—one of pity and disgust. "As you wish."

With that, the Prince Regent abruptly stepped aside, and from behind the High Seat, Huan padded forward.

He paid no attention to the accusations Orodreth leveled, echoed by those who had escaped Sauron's dungeons. He knew most of them were true—except the one about his supposed infatuation with Thingol's daughter. That, he would never clarify. He preferred such rumors to the truth.

His gaze remained fixed on Huan, ignoring everything else. My loyal friend, he thought, finding the irony almost unbearable. Is everything I cherish doomed to be lost in the most unexpected manner?

Huan confirmed everything he and his brother were accused of—not with words, but with nods. But it was well known that the hound of Valinor was allowed to speak three times in his life. Very well. You wish to squander no opportunity to speak of us. As his mind swam in a sea of rage and hurt, the shouts and cries from the crowd grew louder and louder.

"Traitors! Ungrateful traitors!"

"Justice!"

Alerted by those terms, he reached for his sword, only to find it absent. Yet, rather than fear, he felt indignation, standing against the tide of fury and hatred. Fools! Who guarded your realm? Who fought your foes? You call us ungrateful, but what about you? Are you any better than we are? After all, who rejected their liege lord, and who acquiesced to our reign? "Justice"—what right do you have to judge us? Judge yourselves first!

Orodreth raised a hand. At his gesture, the crowd slowly quieted, awaiting their rightful King to speak.

"King Finrod was my brother," Orodreth began. "He was wise to found a kingdom and brave to defend it. He was noble to forgive his cousins, who ruthlessly murdered his mother's kin, and kind to provide them with shelter after their defeat. Had he not given his life to fulfill his promise, he would have been generous enough to forgo pursuing their treason and betrayal." The King paused, his voice hardening. "But I am not as kind or generous as he was."

The burst of approval that followed was so great that the King had to raise his hand again. "No, I will not suffer my people to slay my cousins either, for the spilling of kindred blood by kin would bind the curse of Mandos more closely upon us. But I will not allow them to remain here, for I will grant neither bread nor rest to traitors! Hear me now, Celegorm and Curufin: Leave, and leave soon. Let it be known that there shall be little love between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor hereafter!"

"Let it be so!" he answered above the clamor, fell and proud. I would not stay here even if you begged me. The day shall come when you realize the mistake you have made.

But his brother said nothing. Curufin simply followed him out, a smile on his lips.

As they prepared to leave, he did not see Celebrimbor with Curufin, nor did he find his nephew among those silently watching their departure. Some still bore the Star of Fëanor, his own herald among them. He glanced at Curufin but read nothing from his brother's face. However insensitive he might be, he knew better than to question his brother about his nephew at that moment.

He mounted his horse, his bow slung across his back, his sword resting at his side, and his spear secured at the flank. His gaze swept over those who had once followed him but now chose to stay behind, his eyes icy cold.

So, you have betrayed us, though you once swore your allegiance to the House of Fëanor. Do you think you can free yourselves from the curse? Fools. You cannot, for I tell you this: from now on, you shall bear not only that ancient curse but also this doom I place upon you. The Doom shall find you before I do, and you will be utterly defeated by the one you trust and support. For your treason, this is the price you must pay!

Turning away from their hateful faces, he urged his stallion forward, galloping through the Great Gate.

Along with Curufin, he crossed the creeks he had once crossed and climbed the hills he had climbed before. He did not slow until the hidden kingdom of Narog was far behind, out of sight. But then, to his surprise, he noticed an unexpected follower trailing them like a sorrowful ghost.

Teeth clenched, he stared at the hound. Your betrayal has cost us the key to Doriath, the crown of Nargothrond, and the youngest heir of the House of Fëanor. How dare you follow me still? Do you intend to see me destroyed?

"Which way should we take, Turko?" Curufin asked, as if he had not noticed the hound.

The choice seemed simple, for the power of the House of Fëanor lay mainly in two places: Himring and Amon Ereb. Maedhros and Maglor still held the fortress of Himring and its surrounding lands, while Caranthir, along with Amrod and Amras, had retreated to the South and fortified their camp at Amon Ereb. Yet, he hesitated before answering. Himring meant Maedhros and obedience; Amon Ereb meant Caranthir and conflict.

"I suggest Himring," Curufin said, observing his hesitation. Noticing the deepening frown on his brother's face, Curufin added, "Because our eldest brother has the right to know what has transpired in Nargothrond and what aid Finrod had planned to offer to a mortal."

Then he understood. Curufin was right; he had nearly forgotten the root of all their plight: the Silmarils. Finrod had aided someone other than the sons of Fëanor in the quest for a Silmaril—a deed Maedhros would never overlook. With Maedhros' support, they could command the full strength of the House of Fëanor—nearly half the Noldor.

"Himring," he agreed. For that, he supposed he could endure some obedience.

Notes

Words in bold are adapted from The Silmarillion.

Chapter 8. Sad But True: Part Two

Thus it came to pass that they journeyed north. Without an escort, they chose the shortest route to avoid enemies as best they could. Despite their experience as warriors, they were still only two—and a hound, if Huan was to be counted. Their path led them eastward through Talath Dirnen, then north along the edges of the Forests of Brethil. After crossing the river of Sirion and reaching the region of Dimbar, they would follow the northern marches of Doriath.

He did not know she had once taken the same road from Dimbar to Himlad many years ago, but he would have dismissed any notion of fate regardless. When he spotted Thingol's daughter in Brethil, he was genuinely surprised. Even from a distance, her beauty was overwhelming. Against the gloom beneath the trees, she gleamed like a star, and at her side was...

"Kill the mortal and take Lúthien," said Curufin suddenly. "Then Doriath will still be ours, and Nargothrond will pay for their mistake."

His stallion halted almost in unison with Huan. He glanced at the hound and saw no outward protest, but he knew, deep down, that Huan was troubled by Curufin's proposal. The knowledge only fueled his cruel satisfaction and strengthened his resolve.

Taking his silence as hesitation, Curufin drew closer. "We are riders, while they are on foot. It can be easily done. All you need to d—"

"I will deal with the mortal," he snapped. "But I do not need your instructions."

Without awaiting a response, he urged his horse forward. Disregarding his brother's suggestion, he rode past Beren, circling back to face the mortal directly. He would not stoop to striking from behind without challenge, not outside the heat of battle—his pride forbade such dishonor.

As he locked eyes with Beren, he heard Lúthien's cry and realized that Curufin had caught her by surprise. But what happened next completely stunned him. Her voice seemed to transform the mortal into a warrior of startling ferocity. In an instant, Beren vanished from his sight, moving faster than he had ever thought possible. A burst of shouting and cursing followed. When he finally turned his steed, Curufin was no longer mounted but wrestling with Beren on the ground, struggling desperately as the mortal's hands tightened around his neck. Nearby, Lúthien lay on the grass, while Curufin's horse reared and neighed frantically beside her.

Seeing his brother suffocating, care outweighed reason. He tore his spear from the flank and drove his steed forward, the tip of the weapon fixed on Beren's undefended back.

A roar, great and terrible, filled the air—a sound full of wrath.

Startled, his horse swerved and reared. Caught unprepared, he dropped his spear and clutched the horse's mane, struggling to steady himself. Before he could regain his balance, he saw who had stopped him: it was Huan, once again.

"Get out of my way!" he bellowed. "You are my dog, not his!"

Not any more, the hound's eyes seemed to say, now filled with disappointment and fury rather than sorrow. Without further warning, Huan roared again and sprang at him.

Despite all his urging and cursing, his horse recoiled in fear. "You, both of you, shall pay for your betrayal!" he shouted, his voice trembling with rage. But neither the hound nor the horse paid heed, while Curufin's struggles grew weaker with each passing moment. In his frustration, he drew his sword.

"Stop!" A voice cut through the chaos, soft yet clear. "Beren, stop!"

He turned his head and saw Thingol's daughter. She had risen to her feet and rushed to Beren's side. "Do not kill him," she implored, gripping the mortal's arm. "He shall not die by your hand."

Her words had an immediate effect. Though reluctantly, Beren released Curufin. "But he shall not leave freely," he said, his voice harsh to Elven ears. "He has no honor; therefore, I grant him no respect."

Gasping and coughing, Curufin managed to sit up as Beren stripped him of all his gear and weapons without mercy, including the knife wrought by Telchar of Nogrod.

Only then did he exhale, secretly relieved. He had not expected Thingol's daughter to spare Curufin's life. Yet, to his further surprise, she left Beren's side and took several steps toward him. The dirt and blood on her only seemed to exalt her immortal beauty, which illuminated the glade around them.

She stopped at a distance. When he could not help but meet her gaze, her voice suddenly rang in his mind: You should never have fallen so low.

Save your lecture, he retorted. And save your judgment of me. You are no holier than I am. Go with your mortal and remember what you will suffer down the road.

Do not go to Doriath, she held his gaze. If you set foot on the land, your doom shall find you.

At that, indignation flared within him. Save your threat as well. The sons of Fëanor have heard more threats than you have in your entire life. As for your dear Doriath, this I say to you, daughter of Thingol: it will fall.

Her whisper touched his mind like a sigh. Then I pity you, Celegorm.

Who needs your condescending pity? His rage surged anew, as it always did in her presence. Who are you to judge me?

"Your horse I keep for the service of Lúthien, and it may be accounted as happy to be free of such a master." (1) Meanwhile, seemingly unaware of their unspoken exchange, Beren hauled Curufin to his feet and flung him forward with disdain. With dark bruises visible on his neck, Curufin staggered away from Beren. Just when it seemed his brother might remain subdued, Curufin turned sharply, his voice hoarse and dripping with venom as he cursed: "Go hence, unto a swift and bitter death!" (2)

He bent down to help his brother mount his horse. As Curufin settled behind him, he felt fingers digging into his back, but he paid them no heed. His thoughts were now consumed by her. The burning desire to kill them all—the mortal, the hound, and Thingol's daughter—seared through him. Never before had he endured such insult. Yet, despite his rage, he hesitated, troubled by the way she had looked at him, as if she had once again seen into the depths of his soul.

Sensing his turmoil, Curufin leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Let us go, my brother."

He obeyed mechanically, instructing his horse to turn north. As they began to ride away, he cast one final glance at her. She had turned away, but at her side, Huan remained, his eyes sharp and vigilant.

Just then, he felt a shift at his back. Before he could react, Curufin loosed an arrow from his bow, aimed directly at Thingol's daughter. What followed was chaos. Huan leapt like a flash of lightning, catching the first arrow mid-flight, but the second was too swift for the hound to intercept. It was Beren who stepped forward, shielding her. The arrow struck him square in the chest, and blood blossomed like a crimson flower.

"What have you done?!" he shouted at Curufin in stunned disbelief. But Curufin simply drove his heels into the horse's flanks. The stallion bolted into a gallop, narrowly avoiding Huan, who gave chase with fury and relentless determination. After a long and grueling pursuit, they finally managed to lose the hound and came to a stop. The horse stood drenched in sweat, while the riders, too, were worn and exhausted.

He busied himself tending to the stallion for a moment before blurting out, "You should not have tried to kill her."

"You should not have let her go in the first place."

Curufin's sharp retort silenced him. Neither spoke again for the rest of the journey. It was not until the great walls of Himring appeared on the horizon that Curufin broke the silence, his voice carrying a hint of harshness, but still icy. "At least now the mortal is dead."

But even Curufin's judgment could falter. The mortal did not die. Instead, he survived against all odds and went on to achieve a deed that would be sung of for ages. Beren and Lúthien braved every peril and reached the very hells of Angband, where together they wrested a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of the Dark Lord.

It would have been much simpler had he died, he thought, watching from afar the endless dust of Anfauglith. Behind him stood a host ready to march, comprised of all the Noldor of East Beleriand, the Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod, and the Swarthy Men who had sworn allegiance to the House of Fëanor. But few among them had once served under his command, for none had come to join them from Nargothrond.

"Send to the Commander and ask how much longer we must wait," he instructed Lachodir, his new herald. Lachodir repeated the order and promptly passed it down.

Lachodir had volunteered for service shortly after he and Curufin arrived at Himring. "Perhaps you do not remember, my lord, but you saved my life in battle—not once, but twice. May I have the honor of serving you again?" Although he had saved countless lives in battle and could not recall the specific instance Lachodir mentioned, he saw no reason to turn the young Noldo away. With most of his people left behind, he needed at least a capable herald. Lachodir had not disappointed. Despite his youth, he displayed no signs of inexperience and occasionally impressed him with his unwavering dedication.

He wondered why Maedhros had delayed the attack. His eldest brother was capable of patience when necessary, but he had always been decisive in matters of warfare. Before they reached Himring, Maedhros had already learned of Thingol's daughter, for the King of Doriath had sent a request for aid after her escape from Nargothrond. Yet, to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move after hearing the full account from Curufin. When tidings arrived that Thingol's daughter and her mortal lover had wrested a Silmaril from Morgoth, Maedhros sent a demand to Menegroth, insisting that it be returned to its rightful owners. When his claim was denied, Maedhros still did not act immediately, again confounding expectations. Instead, while busy forging a great alliance, Maedhros took a course that others might deem more acceptable: he chose to gather all their strength and challenge Morgoth directly in open war. However, he did not restrain his younger brothers from issuing open threats to Thingol and his people. Perhaps Curufin saw the truth of it: "Because once we reclaim the other two Silmarils, Maitimo would have to do the same."

And so here they were, waiting in the Gasping Dust for what would be the final, defining battle. Banners of every color fluttered in the morning breeze, and the Star of Fëanor blazed brightly in the midsummer sunlight, nearly blinding in its brilliance.

"We have a reply from Lord Maedhros, my lord," Lachodir reported. "It says: Wait until the tidings from Uldor are confirmed."

He nodded and surveyed his host once more. When his gaze inadvertently met that of an Easterling, the dark-skinned man quickly lowered his eyes, as though scorched by the Elven stare. This caused him to frown, and he turned away in scorn. This must be one of Ulfang's men, he thought. It was Caranthir who insisted on accepting them as allies, claiming there was courage among Men. As if he had truly seen it! And if Caranthir had scorned the House of Arafinwë all his life, how could he place his trust in a lesser and weaker race? But Maedhros had deemed all support valuable, and that had ended the debate.

Let us wait then, he thought. Wait for your trusted mortals to tell you when to march. And once and for all, we will put this war to an end.

And the war was indeed brought to an end—though not in the way they had anticipated.

The power of Morgoth was indeed terrible and vast, but the Enemy did not secure his victory through Dragons, Balrogs, or countless Orcs. The Dark Lord had sealed his triumph long before the battle began, for he had Ulfang the Easterling as his secret ally. The seed of destruction sprouted when the time came. It was the treachery of Men that had undone all their efforts and brought them to ruin.

But there was no time for reflection amid the chaos of battle—nor was reflection ever his strength. We lost, he judged, as the turncoats neared Maedhros' standard. We must retreat; otherwise, we will all perish here. Raising his voice above the din, he shouted the order to retreat, searching desperately for Lachodir to pass on the command. Just as he caught sight of his herald fighting valiantly ahead, an overwhelming pain erupted from his back.

Lowering his eyes, he saw the blood-stained point of a spear protruding from his chest. Gritting his teeth, he turned his head with great effort and caught a glimpse of a sneering troll. As his strength ebbed and his vision blurred, realization dawned on him with a bitter finality. I have been careless, he thought, as the darkness closed in. The loyal shadow that had always guarded my back is no more.

When he regained awareness, he found himself no longer on the battlefield but in a quiet glade, lying on the ground. Lachodir sat beside him, his face pale beneath streaks of blood, his sword dented, and his armor scarred. Other soldiers rested nearby, but an oppressive silence hung over the group. The misty chill in the air felt jarring, a stark contrast to the warmth of midsummer.

He stirred, drawing Lachodir's immediate attention. At the sight of him awake, his herald visibly relaxed. But his gaze did not turn to Lachodir. Instead, it fell upon a lifeless form lying in a puddle near the edge of the glade—a white coat and silver mane, stained with dark blood. His stallion.

Lachodir followed his gaze and hesitated before speaking. "It was your horse who carried you here on his back, my lord."

A violent cough seized him, and he tasted blood—a bitter, strange tang that nearly made him retch. Even so, he pushed away Lachodir's helping hands, forcing himself upright despite the pain. His voice came strained but resolute. "Then I will need a new steed."

Many years later, as he entered the defenseless Doriath astride a different white stallion, the fire burning in his heart felt colder than the bitterest wind of winter.

I will finish what is left.

But what was left? It seemed that all his curses had taken root, by some cruel design of fate. Huan was dead, for he fought Morgoth's wolf to the death for a mortal man. His steed was gone, for it gave its life to save its master from the Nirnaeth. Beren died, along with Thingol's daughter; though granted a second life, they had to die again, for they were doomed to mortality and must leave the circles of the world. Nargothrond had fallen, and Orodreth had perished; those who had renounced the House of Fëanor were brought to death by someone they trusted, just as he had foretold. Thingol was slain, and Melian had departed Middle-earth; Doriath was left open to its enemies, and the splendid halls of Menegroth were sacked by the greed of Dwarves. If Dior the Half-elven had not taken up his grandfather's crown and vowed to restore its glory, the once-great Hidden Kingdom would have been no more.

What was left to be done? An oath to recover the Jewels wrought by his father, and a threat to destroy a kingdom.

And it so happened that both could be achieved with a single move.

He stirred up his brothers to prepare for an assault upon Doriath, as later tales would recount. Yet, bound by their oath, the sons of Fëanor had no choice when Dior refused to surrender the Silmaril—a fact Maedhros understood as well as he did. Thus, they came, in the depths of winter, at a time of careful choosing, though Maedhros insisted their purpose was not the ruin of Doriath, but the reclamation of the Silmaril they had sworn to recover at all costs.

Meeting little resistance, they soon reached the great bridge spanning the river of Esgalduin. On the far side stood the gates of Menegroth, and beyond lay the marvelous city of the Thousand Caves, the heart of Doriath. By then, the Grey Elves, warned of their approach, had hastily assembled a host. But his eyes found what he sought with ease: the Heir of Thingol did not hide behind the gates but waited before them.

Dior Eluchíl truly has her blood in him. With that thought, he unsheathed his sword.

Dior fought better than he had anticipated. He should have known it. The Half-elven's father was none other than Beren Erchamion—a mortal so formidable that Morgoth had set a price on his head. Beren had survived the fire of the Dagor Bragollach, endured the betrayal of his kin, and wandered alone through perilous highlands, crossing mountains and valleys of terror. He had entered Doriath despite the Girdle of Melian, nearly strangled Curufin with his bare hands, and ultimately accomplished the unimaginable: retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown alongside his lover.

It was a pity that he, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, had never faced Beren in single combat. If he had, it would have been better for him—for at least it would have been more honorable to fall by Beren's hand than by that of his son.

He took a step back, lowered his eyes, and saw blood pouring from his chest. He knew it was fatal. His end was near.

I pity you, a voice whispered in his mind.

Who needs your pity? He spat, full of conceit. Especially when the one who took my life is your son?

As he fell, he felt no pain and gave little thought to the shadow of the Everlasting Dark, for perhaps the weight of the Oath had never truly pressed upon him. When he left Finrod to die in Sauron's dungeons and seized the kingship of Nargothrond, was it purely the desire for the Silmaril that drove him? When he vowed to destroy Doriath and set out to fulfill that oath, was it obsession with reclaiming the Great Jewel that compelled him? When he burned the ships at Losgar, when he plotted vengeance in Himlad, when he sent the one he had loved to her death again and again—did he think of the Oath at all?

The Oath was but an excuse. Darkness arose from within.

He closed his eyes, and the figure that had haunted his dreams became suddenly, painfully clear. Against the endless darkness, she shone like a star—dazzling, unreachable, beautiful beyond measure. So close, yet so remote.

Is that you, Aredhel? Are you laughing again? You always had the upper hand over me, Irissë, you always had.

He longed to raise his hand, to touch her, but found he could not.

...Knowing more of animals than of people...

But did he truly know animals so well? His thoughts turned to Huan—a shadow that haunted him as deeply as she did. Did he understand why Huan had given his life for a mortal? Did he know why the hound had ultimately chosen to leave him, despite forsaking the Blessed Realm to follow him into exile and peril?

He did not know, and perhaps he never would. As for people, he knew even less. Aredhel—no, Irissë—did he truly know her? He must have loved her, but he had never understood what she wanted from him. Why did she approach only to evade? Why had she chosen a spiteful Dark Elf as her husband, a choice that ultimately cost her life? Did he know Curufin? Was he merely a pawn in his brother's games of power? If that were true, why had Curufin urged him to reconsider his decision about her in Rerir? And what of Lachodir? As he fell, he had heard his herald's voice swearing vengeance at all costs. But what had he done to inspire such loyalty? What had he done to deserve it?

Maybe it was as ironic as it seemed: what you neglect often surprises you, while what you trust betrays you in the end. Or perhaps, the truth ran deeper still: trust, when taken for granted and presumed unbreakable, crumbles under the weight of abuse, while neglect, free of expectation, yields unlooked-for gifts.

I pity you, the voice whispered again.

Is that truly what you meant, Lúthien?

Lúthien. In his final moments, he addressed her by her name for the first time in his mind. Lúthien Tinúviel. Until now, she had always been "Thingol's daughter" to him, though he knew her name just as well as others did. Did he truly hate her? He did not know. All he knew was that, in some inexplicable way, she had touched his heart. It was not through her beauty; but was it love? Could a son of Fëanor love twice in one lifetime? And if it was not love, then what? A yearning for something he had forever lost, or something he had never truly possessed?

His strength waned, and consciousness began to slip away. He could not tell if the faint calls from afar were mere illusions. Yet, even if he could hold on, he knew the answers to these questions were beyond his reach.

Because he had never truly known himself.

As the Everlasting Dark closed in, to his own surprise, he laughed—at himself, and all that he had done.

Is it truly my doing? Is it because of me that everything I cherish is doomed to be lost in the most unexpected manner?

He would have eternity to find out before the End.

(The End of the Main Story)

Notes

(1) (2): quotes from The Silmarillion.

Celegorm's new herald Lachodir is my creation, for his previous herald must have chosen to renounce him and stayed in Nargothrond. I created Lachodir as one who would avenge Celegorm's death, and it is quite ironic in itself: the one who was the most 'loyal' to him brought about the most evil act.

I chose to leave some details out of this story, such as why Celegorm had not attempted to take the Silmaril from Lúthien when she was on Tol Galen and how Celegorm had stirred up his brothers to attack Doriath after the Silmaril was passed to Dior, for his internal conflicts actually reached a climax and an end when he utterly lost Huan.

Extra Chapter:

Time Enough for Love

"It chanced that Celegorm and Curufin went on a hunt through the Guarded Plain; and this they did because Sauron, being filled with suspicion, sent forth many wolves into the Elf-lands..."

- The Silmarillion

Three on the riverbank, and two in the woods, the hound reported.

Those in the woods are yours, and I will deal with the rest, he decided.

Are you certain? the hound asked.

Instead of responding, he simply urged his stallion forward. From where he was, the edge of the woods came into view, and the sound of the river was easily heard. Mist from the running water had drifted into the woods, floating past trunks and branches, gradually filling the space between dark brown and deep green with a thick, milky white.

Why did Huan even question it? As his stallion increased its pace, he took hold of the spear hanging from his side. It is but three Orcs, nothing more.

In all conscience, his confidence was not unfounded.

He fell upon the Orcs by the riverbank, catching them completely off guard. The look of horror on their faces gave him grim satisfaction. They reeked of the fear of death, yet not a sound escaped their mouths. He left them no chance to shout a warning. When one of them mouthed "Golug," his spear had already pierced its throat. An arrow struck the second in the eye. Had he not been mindful of the mess it would leave on his steed, he would have let the third die under its hooves.

Pulling a sword free from a lifeless body was a repulsive task, but he felt no such aversion—his sword was no ordinary blade. Crafted by his father, the greatest smith of the Noldor, it was never easily stained. Despite countless battles and the immeasurable blood it had spilled, the blade remained as sharp and pristine as the day it was forged, gleaming like a flawless mirror.

Just then, something fell from the bushes and tumbled to the pebbled shore where he stood. Startled, he instinctively tightened his grip on the sword hilt, but then relaxed. It was only another dead Orc.

Did you do it on purpose, Huan? Looking at the fourth body at the scene, he could not help but pull a wry smile. The cause of death was clear: no one could survive with their neck twisted into such a grotesque angle.

You were careless, answered the hound.

He snorted. With you nearby, I have no need to be cautious.

A large shadow leaped over the thick bushes and reached him in the blink of an eye. His stallion, rather than tensing in alarm, merely snuffled a greeting, for it was Huan, the hound of Valinor—their loyal and tireless companion.

"Perhaps I should arrange for someone to clean up after you specifically, Turko."

With that, another rider appeared. Sitting at ease on horseback, Curufin showed no sign of being touched by battle and remained as graceful as ever. "We have just finished piling up the corpses over there, and we are ready to burn them."

"Tell them to wait then, for there are five more." He sheathed his sword and turned to his brother. "It still baffles me how much fuss they made over a handful of Orcs back in Nargothrond."

"Well, there were some wild wolves too, to be fair," Curufin pointed out, smiling. "It took us three days to deal with all of them."

"Maybe." Seeing Huan give a hearty nod, he had to agree. "Anyway, the problem is solved now."

"Hopefully," Curufin said, a tendril of a smile curling on his lips.

Since Finrod's departure, peace had prevailed for a time, until trouble was reported from the borders. Creatures of Morgoth and spies of Sauron had spilled out from the Isle of Werewolves into the south, and Talath Dirnen had become a region haunted by wild wolves and Orcs. Everyone agreed that it was crucial to determine why the Enemy had suddenly become unusually active, but whenever the topic of an investigation arose, Finrod's secretive, peace-loving people would fall silent altogether. In the end, he resolved to go himself, accompanied by Curufin and their own guards, who had come with them to Nargothrond after the Bragollach.

Given this, it was perhaps not so surprising that he and Curufin, princes of the House of Fëanor, had gained more influence than Orodreth, the Prince Regent, in a kingdom founded by the House of Finarfin.

So far, the attempt to reclaim the Guarded Plain had been successful. They had not yet uncovered the Enemy's motivation, but their ruthless approach had made an immediate impact—at least spending a night in the wild had become far less perilous. Having restored peace and order to the land, they planned to return the next day, so he decided to grant Huan the freedom to hunt alone. After a simple dinner, only he and Curufin remained by the campfire.

"What news from the east?" He uncorked a wineskin and poured dark red liquid into his brother's cup. A messenger from East Beleriand had found them during the day, and, as was customary, Curufin had received him.

"Maitimo and Makalaurë continue to hold Himring, while Moryo and our Ambarussa twins have made Amon Ereb their base," Curufin replied, nodding in thanks as he accepted the cup. "It seems they can manage things on their own. It is also said that many mortal Men have sworn allegiance to Moryo, which I find somewhat intriguing."

"Men?" He frowned. He had met few mortal Men and had always remained indifferent toward them, though the one who came to Nargothrond uninvited had done little to improve his opinion.

"Moryo seems to think they have some virtue." Curufin took a measured sip of wine, watching as his brother served himself. "Perhaps the influence of Haleth is greater than I anticipated."

"Haleth?" He repeated the name, which sounded faintly familiar. "I remember some Men who wished to cross the land of Himlad and travel westward, before the Bragollach. Was their leader..."

"It was her," Curufin confirmed. "She led the Haladin, and that was when she departed from Estolad, years after she had declined Moryo's offer to remain in Thargelion."

He tried to recall her appearance but could remember little, except that she seemed much like other Men. She was not beautiful—most Men were not considered beautiful in the eyes of the Eldar—nor did she strike him as particularly impressive by his standards. If there was anything remarkable about her, it was her female bodyguard: taller and stronger than most. "She declined Moryo's offer?" he asked, incredulous. "And Moryo took no offense? I thought he had quite the temper."

"It is between him and her," Curufin replied, pouring a little more wine. The campfire crackled beside them; now and then, sparks leapt into the dew-damp grass, vanishing like fleeting fireflies on a summer night.

He asked no more but drank more instead. Whatever Caranthir had felt about the mortal woman—be it appreciation or disdain—he knew better than to judge. Sorting out such entanglements, he thought, would require the skills of a scholar or philosopher like Finrod. Of course, that assumed the golden head of Finrod's had not turned into a hot head that insisted on aiding a mortal in recovering a Silmaril.

"I wonder what has become of Finrod," he mused aloud.

Curufin glanced at him, shaking his head slightly. "I had hoped to gather some tidings to answer that question," he said dryly, "but now it seems impossible, for you and Huan refused to take captives."

"Habits are habits," he laughed without thinking. "I do not want to change, and I cannot change."

He knew he had made a mistake even before the words left his lips.

Pain surged from within, and the cool wine that had eased his throat now burned like fire in his chest. Summoning every shred of will, he fought against the tremors threatening to overtake him, cursing himself, as he had done so many times before. It has been so long—why can you not simply forget? Why do her words still linger on your lips, as if she were alive?

"Turko?"

Curufin's voice reached him, distant and faint, yet piercing the walls of his mind, stirring the faintest echoes of memory. Slowly, a figure emerged from the haze of those long-buried days: dark hair that gleamed in the light, eyes of silver-grey, a form slender by Noldorin standards. What had Curufin called her? How had he introduced her? He remembered feeling uneasy then, meeting the maiden his brother had loved—but her smile had quickly undone his awkwardness.

He recognized her, for she was Curufin's wife, Celebrimbor's mother. Long ago, she had refused to join their exile and now remained across the Sea. Ever since they had set foot in the Hither Lands, Curufin had not spoken her name—not once.

But how was it possible? How could his brother sever all ties with the past and never feel regret?

Doubts, fueled by wine, flared in his mind, like a fire feeding on dry hay. Tossing his head back, he blurted out a question before he could stop himself: "Your wife, Kurvo—did you love her?"

At that, the cup in his brother's hand shattered. Even the wind seemed to still. For a moment, they stared at each other, dark liquid dripping from Curufin's long fingers—whether wine or blood, it was impossible to tell.

He had never seen such a look in Curufin's eyes before: dark and desperate, like the final glow of dying embers.

"Of course I love her."

Curufin said, just when he thought his brother would not answer. Sharp pieces fell from Curufin's hand, some stained with blood, yet there was no wound on that elegant hand—for the silence had lasted long enough for all wounds to heal.

Yet, he noted that Curufin used the word love instead of loved.

Involuntarily, he chuckled. Was it then the doom and curse of the House of Fëanor? Both had loved and still loved, each in his way, and yet, believing it their own choice, both had let go in the end. But if this were true, were they not both foolish beyond measure?

He had once thought they would never fall into such a trap. For the Firstborn, was there not always time enough for love? Before the life of Arda itself reached its end, before the river of Time ceased its flow, would he not find her at last? Someday, he would look her in the eye and repeat the words—simple words, yet so hard to utter. Words spoken once on the plains of Valinor, again in the mists of Araman, and then left unspoken on the ice fields of Helcaraxë, in Irmo's domain of dreams and desire.

But he was wrong—completely wrong.

In the battlefield that belonged only to them, he was fated to lose because he loved her first, and loved her deeper.

It was because of that that he could not bear to see her leave him.

It was also because of that that he could only destroy her to the last.

She must have known it. Otherwise, why would she have approached him, yet evaded him, choosing cold, darkness, a Dark Elf, and even death over him when she was cornered? Irissë, he murmured, half awake and half in dream, relishing those familiar syllables on his lips, unable to tell whether they tasted like love or hatred. You would admit no defeat, but would flee instead? Why were you so determined to torture me, using everything you had?

There was no answer.

Of course, there would be no answer. She was gone, truly beyond the Hither Lands this time. Yet, he could not help but extend his thoughts westward, knowing it would be in vain, but wishing to try nonetheless, simply because he longed to see her face once again. On the other side of the Sundering Sea, in the silent Halls of Waiting, in a corner where he could neither see, hear, nor feel, would she sense him calling?

Now, on the Guarded Plain, beneath a starless sky, he suddenly wondered if the Halls of Mandos were as dark.

(The End)