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

The story is based on the published Silmarillion and some details from other versions of texts in The History of Middle-earth (Volume 3 and 11, to be specific). It is, though not groundless, only one possible interpretation of 'history' and has no claim on the 'truth'.

The title and chapter titles are taken from the Black Album of Metallica: Sad But True, Holier Than Thou, Don't Tread on Me, Through the Never, and The Unforgiven.

Many thanks to onoheiwa@ff.net for beta reading!

Chapter 1. Holier Than Thou

They said he fell in love with her as soon as he saw her, simply because of her 'sudden beauty revealed beneath the sun'; but they were wrong, completely wrong.

As an experienced hunter, he was perfectly capable of walking through the corridor without making his footsteps heard, but he took satisfaction in breaking the silence and had no intention in concealing his presence. Nargothrond had numerous halls and chambers excavated by the Naugrim. Although as a guest he did not have the liberty of accessing all of them, the restriction was lifted after Finrod's departure. Now he knew this stronghold very well, for he had explored every part of it. No one raised an objection; no one even tried.

Not quite true, he thought. Someone did. It was Orodreth, Finrod's younger brother, the Prince Regent here - of course, in title only. How could Finrod believe his weak-hearted brother could successfully rule this kingdom in his name, against their powerful kin? Was there any one who could stand against two sons of Fëanor?

He entered a devious passage, for which he had issued an order: no one could approach without permission from him or his brother, for his beautiful captive was kept alone in the chamber at the end of it. It could be argued how legitimate this arrangement was, but he did not make life miserable for her; why would he anyway? He was supposed to marry her.

Lips curling, he managed a contorted smile.

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

...

- Turko, bring her back with us.

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

- She is the daughter of Thingol, his only daughter, his heir. Thingol has never been willing to open his gate for the House of Fëanor, but with her you will have the key to Doriath, a key that will definitely unlock a great power.

- What do I care about Doriath?

- You are asking while knowing the answer. Surely you have not forgotten our oath. As of now we do not have enough strength to fulfill it. We need more support and an opportunity is right in front of you, an opportunity that cannot be missed. Once you win her heart, Doriath will be ours.

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

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

...

Involuntarily, his smile vanished.

The door was locked, and it was Curufin who had made it. Only the two sons of Fëanor here possessed the keys, and no others were allowed to visit her.

Again, not quite true, he thought. There seems always to be an exception. A familiar figure lay in front of the door, still like stone, eyes filled with sorrow and vigilance. It was Huan, the wolf-hound that 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 like this arrangement, but there are things you do not understand.

His cold glance made the hound stand up and step aside without protest. Not without hesitation, he noted, but to his relief there was no suspicion or mistrust. Yet.

He unlocked the door and entered the chamber. Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia, was quietly sitting inside. Having refused all the delicate and luxurious clothes he and his brother sent her, she was still wearing her sky blue garment, the same one she wore when they found her. Her long dark hair was like the shadows of twilight, her bright grey eyes the mist over starlit water.

He looked at her, still surprised and disturbed by the fact that her beauty seemed to have no effect on him. This is strange, he thought, and unfair. He remembered her overwhelming beauty when she pulled off her hood in front of them, a beauty next to which even the sunlight at high noon seemed pale and dim. All his guards gazed at her then, unwilling to move their eyes, but he raised a single brow, passionless though not indifferent.

In a surge of wry anger, he kicked the door closed behind him and made a step towards her, significantly reducing the distance between them, for the chamber was not large. He could not tell whether her almost imperceptible flinch was due to the slamming sound or his approach, however, he decided to take it as the latter and managed a smile, lordly and mocking.

'Do not worry,' he lowered his head towards her gracefully, as if he and she had met at a formal ceremony. Many predators would play with their prey, a fact no one knew better than he. 'I will not touch you, not for now at least. In the future, maybe, but that is for you to decide.'

She straightened slightly.

'I sent to your father to tell him: the mortal Beren died, as did Finrod with him; I will be the King of Nargothrond and you wish to stay here to be my Queen. We will marry once we receive his blessing, but even then I will not touch you if you do not wish me to.' Seeing a flicker of surprise in her eyes, he laughed. 'I am to take your hand, not your life. From what I have heard, you are only valuable alive.'

He knew he sounded like Curufin, but he did not care. It mattered not who actually made this whole plan, because he approved it, though for different reasons. Ever since the fulfillment of the Oath had become a seemingly impossible task, he had been actively looking for entertainment: a pinch of spice to a plain dish, a moment of amusement in a tedious hunt.

She looked at him without a word. Contrary to what he had expected, she showed no abhorrence, anger, or fear - not even the slightest sign of it. He found himself a little confused, but not surprised. Indeed he had no interest in knowing her. He never liked speculating what others might have on their minds, nor was he good at it. For that, Curufin was the master.

...Knowing more about animals than people...

Out of nowhere, suddenly and violently, pain assaulted him from the inside. Almost trembling, he cursed himself as he always did. It has been such a long time; why will you not simply forget?

He sensed that she fixed her eyes on him. Her silence and composure finally consumed his patience, and he could no longer bear to face her. He turned abruptly and started striding towards the door. It was neither ambition nor desire that troubled him. It was something else, more sad, yet more real.

'Lord Celegorm,' she spoke then, addressing him by his Sindarin name. He stopped without looking back.

'You would not go to rescue him as you promised, would you?'

He made no answer, but she needed no answer.

'Neither would 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 really know, daughter of Thingol? My kin or not, none of it matters. This is not the first time I betrayed my so-called kin. Even if he died, he would not have been the first who died because of me.

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

'That is the least of your concern!' he said, whirling around in fury. 'Now listen to me. You should pray, for that is the best you can do. Pray that your mortal may suffer 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 much more generous than your father.'

He saw her face losing color and found satisfaction in it.

'I will not marry you.' she stated.

'You do not have a choice.' he said, 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 replied. 'As I said, I have no problem taking you as my wife in name only. You can continue your affair with that mortal if you like - he will die anyway, very soon by our standards. And even if an Elf and a Man could have a fruitful marriage, their children would be doomed to mortality as well.'

Again, he could not take credit for these words, because it was Curufin who reached this conclusion one day when the discussion came up about what kind of future an Elven maiden might have with a mortal. Nevertheless he found them extremely proper under the current situation, springing from cruel reality and clear disgust. He saw no other way to tear down the irritating pride and stubbornness of Thingol's daughter.

And he succeeded.

She did not refute at once, for she would not deny the truth in his words. She looked at him, and the only word that could summarize what was in her eyes would be sadness. To his surprise, this time he found himself deeply troubled by her gaze. As incapable as he was in understanding other minds, he could still see clearly that her sadness was not for herself, or for Finrod, or even for her lover.

Then words came from her, words that nobody dared to utter in front of him in the past.

'Lord Celegorm, you love someone else.'

'Stop,' he said instinctively, his heart stuttering.

'I know you intend to take over Doriath through me. However, do you truly wish to pay the price, a bond that you do not desire but will last until the end of the World?'

He closed his eyes, opening them swiftly a moment later. This conversation had somehow gone out of his control and 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.

Suddenly he realized that he was not concealing these thoughts from her; she read them from his eyes and instantly knew the truth. He knew he could not afford to allow her to speak of it. Action preceded consideration and he slapped her in the face without thinking, just to secure her silence. He needed no one to remind him of the past.

The next moment he retreated in disbelief, staring at his own hand, stunned and abhorred. Violence had not been alien to him these days, but that was for his foes. This was the first time he had used it against a defenseless Elven maiden. While his mind churned with thoughts and worries of what ailed him, there came a low growl from outside. Huan, he thought. Blame me as you wish. 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 whipped him mercilessly and left him full of rage. Yet, he was still helpless, like a hound feeling unfairly punished when the punishment was just. When he finally walked out, following some incomprehensible urge, he did not lock the door.

Later that day, Curufin came to him. When his younger brother entered his room he was already in bed, staring at the dancing flames of a candle, feeling no need for rest.

'Did you talk to her, Turko?'

He nodded without taking the trouble to sit up.

'What did she say?'

'What else could she say?' he fidgeted. 'Do you think she would be looking forward to marrying me?'

A maid entered with a light knock. He waved her out impatiently, knowing his words must have been heard. Tomorrow, probably, this place will overflow with rumors saying I have fallen in love with Thingol's daughter, he thought. So be it. Sometimes lies are better than the truth.

'My understanding is that you know how important this arrangement is to us.' said Curufin's gentle voice, in an ever firm and convincing tone. Among the seven brothers Curufin resembled their father most, not only in appearance but also in the talents of making; however, Curufin's way was not their father's way. This difference seemed particularly confusing given all the other similarities, and it always made him a little uneasy around this brother. 'You know this is the best opportunity we have come across, in order to fulfill the Oath.'

'Well, I am afraid I have failed to see how the Oath can be fulfilled more easily if Finrod dies with that mortal in Gorthaur's dungeon.' he said, voice dripping in sarcasm. 'Because the Silmarilli are excluded from our primary concern before we secure two Elven kingdoms in our hands.'

The light in Curufin's eyes grew cold. 'Innocence is a little too late for you to claim, my brother. Surely you remember how we managed to facilitate Finrod's departure. You were so eloquent that for a moment I found myself at a loss.'

'Yet in time you still found much to say, and made a much more convincing impression.' He sat up and brushed back a lock of hair. Among the seven brothers he had the fairest appearance, though perhaps not quite as fair as his cousin Finrod, but he surpassed him by having the proud bearing of one of the House of Fëanor. 'Do not take me wrong. I did not mean to play innocent. We lost our right to that word long ago.'

And when on Arda had it happened?

He put out the candle after Curufin left, lay down again and stared into the darkness alone.

Since when had betrayal turned into something ordinary? Since when had killing ceased to be disgusting? Since when had even biting the hand that fed them become acceptable, even natural?

He recalled himself, proud and furious, sword shining in hand and fire burning in his eyes. That was when he first learned Finrod's plan: to help a mortal named Beren retrieve a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown. It was true that Finrod harboured him and Curufin in Nargothrond after their defeat in Dagor Bragollach. It was also true that Finrod showed great generosity indeed, considering that they were responsible for the slaughter at the Haven of Swans. But if he was not mistaken, this time Finrod intended to help a base mortal to win the hand of Thingol's daughter by a quest for a Silmaril, one of the Three Jewels that belonged to the sons of Fëanor by right. If Finrod felt like dying for his own irresponsible promise, so be it, but leave the Silmarils out of it. He and his brothers had vowed to take back those jewels and would never suffer others to take, have, or keep any of them. Of course Finrod was aware of it. When they took their oath, was the wise eldest son of Finarfin not present? Nonetheless Finrod decided to keep his own word and showed no concern with theirs. This left the sons of Fëanor no choice, for if they could allow this to happen, what else on Arda could not be allowed?

He spoke at that time, as eloquently and fiercely as his father did in the high court of Tirion. After he finished, Curufin spoke, in his ever steady and graceful manner, with the same firmness and yet with more terrifying indications - Finrod's plan would lead Nargothrond to war. The evil fire of Morgoth would destroy their hard-earned peace. Had they not witnessed the disaster of Dagor Bragollach? Had they not heard of what happened to Dorthonion? Or, if they were courageous and valiant indeed, why not follow the example of their beloved High King and go to challenge the Dark Lord himself, face to face?

Doubtlessly he and his brother won the debate. Besides the mortal, Finrod brought merely ten warriors with him on a path that could only lead to failure. And now his noble-hearted cousin was trapped in Sauron's dungeon, paying for his own folly, fate still uncertain.

And of course he would not go to rescue him.

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

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 from the white city of Tirion, when the Light of the Two Trees was still shining on the lands of Aman, before the Noontide of Valinor reached its end and the Noldor were estranged by the lies of Melkor.

Oromë was his mentor then. He learned much about kelvar and olvar from the Vala, and over time he became one of the greatest hunters among his people as well as a master of tongues of beasts and birds. Together with his brothers, he often rode on 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 talented son of the King, named him Turkafinwë, because even among a people renowned for their strength and skill he was exceptional. Later he was sometimes called 'the fair', a fitting nickname for his qualities. It seemed inevitable that over the long years he had developed a unique kind of pride and, for the most part, it was understandable.

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

He truly believed no one could until he met her.

It started as an ordinary day. He was not surprised when he came home and saw Fingon there, chatting with Maedhros. He did the courtesy of nodding to his cousin and sat down next to his eldest brother, planning to change his riding clothes later. Only after getting himself comfortable 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.

'Who is that?' he asked Maedhros, frowning. Before he got any answer, the child stood up, like a slender sapling of birch.

'You are quite rude,' the child said, defiance in the face. 'If you wish to know someone's name, why not ask her directly?'

Maedhros coughed and had to look away. But he blinked in disbelief. Her?!

He stared at her, and she stared back. They stared at each other, both refusing to budge, until he decided to give up. One does not simply argue with a child. Especially when he already had quite a bit of experience dealing with four younger brothers.

'Then what is your name, please?'

The child looked aside in conceit. 'I do not want 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: he was named by his mother Tyelkormo, for he tended to jump up if irritated. He heard Maedhros and Fingon bursting 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,' Being the eldest son of the House of Fingolfin, Fingon did not indulge himself in his merriment 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 softened the child a little but shocked him entirely. Irissë? Then this is the sister of Findekáno and Turukáno, the young daughter of Nolofinwë? While digesting the news he felt her gaze, full of doubt and obviously scrutinizing. It was quite unpleasant to be stared at by a child in this way, but just before his patience ran out, she broke the silence. 'So you are the cousin who knows more about animals than people.'

At these words he would have literally jumped up 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 obviously wrong. To fall in love at the first sight with a child? He was far more normal than that.

Several days later, he took her out for her first riding lesson. He was not unwilling but rather enthusiastic because he planned to give her a hard time. Before they left Tirion he had given her horse a specific order in advance (by very subtle means, of course): ignore her instructions and look for the first chance to throw her off unharmed.

He had expected her to either fall off the horse or burst into tears very soon, hoping to thus crush her unfounded pride, but she gave him no such satisfaction. She tried her best to deal with her horse without a single word of complaint, stubborn as a rock. In the end even Huan could not bear to watch her struggling any longer. Noting the sympathy in the hound's eyes, he had to admit this would not work as he thought and decided to end the trick.

Her horse was visibly relieved at his instruction of 'cooperate with her'. Leaning back on his own white stallion, he saw her beaming face when she finally managed to tell the horse to gallop. He suddenly felt a little guilty. Maybe I overreacted. However annoying she is, she is just a child.

She stopped at a distance, turned around and started heading back. He watched absently, wondering if taking this responsibility of teaching was a mistake. Findekáno and Turukáno both avoided doing this. Perhaps they are wiser. He gestured Huan to set off for fun and waved his horse away for rest. He himself found a patch of grass nearby and lay down, relaxed. For a moment his mind wandered, until the sound of hooves became louder and louder, and it was directed at him.

The horse was but a few feet from him when he sensed the danger. By pure instinct, he rolled to the side just in time to dodge the hooves, and jumped up quickly to drag down the rider.

'What do you think you were doing?' he was so furious that despite all the effort he put into suppressing the urge of slapping her, he was still by no means gentle or considerate when he let go of her. 'Making him tread on me?! Then you had better know it will not work as long as Arda endures!'

'You had it coming!' she broke loose from him as soon as her feet touched the ground. 'You told my horse not to listen to me!'

But he was already distracted. Anger did not dull his senses, and something felt wrong where she just touched him. Her hands were wet, but not because of sweat; for he saw the mark left on his wrist was red.

He seized her again and forced her to open her hands regardless of all her protest. There were traces of blood all over her small palms, the result of an inexperienced rider holding the reins tight for too long.

'Why did you not tell me?' he asked without looking up.

She withdrew her hands. 'Why should I tell you?'

This time he looked at her, and seeing her defiance he could not help thinking of his younger brothers: Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. They were very different in many ways, but they did have something in common: unruliness. Maedhros and Maglor were no exception, nor was he himself. She is unlike one of the House of Nolofinwë, he thought. She was like one of the House of Fëanor. And it had always been a pity that they did not have a sister.

He called back his stallion. There was a phial in the saddlebag, and he poured all its content onto her hands. 'It will heal soon,' he assured her. The potion was prepared long ago originally for himself, and he had outgrown the clumsy problem ever since then.

She looked up into his eyes, surprised by what he did; after a little while, for the first time since they met, she smiled at him. 'Well, you are not totally without merit then.'

At that, his urge of slapping her returned.

When did that urge subside? When did he begin to enjoy her presence? When did he notice that she was no longer a child but a maiden tall and strong, like a young tree standing next to her brothers? And when did people start calling her the White Lady of the Noldor?

He did not know. All he knew was that she shared much intimacy with him and remained close to him even after the Shadow fell. She preferred his company, but kept a good relationship with his brothers, especially Amrod and Amras. She often came to visit them, and together they would go riding and hunting, far and wide. In fact he and his brothers had long treated 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 realized what she truly meant to him.

'You love me?' she tossed back her head, laughing out loud. 'Do not be absurd. You cannot possibly fall in love with one you have watched grow up.'

He laughed along with her, more naturally than he had dared to hope. The world around was lit by silver and gold, filled with warmth and light. The sound of laughter startled a flock of birds nearby, and the sky was full of screeching and fluttering for a while.

During that day's hunting he was more ruthless than ever. Soon the game was too much to carry, but he showed no intention to stop.

'Enough.' she said. 'Do not kill without need.'

He ignored her words as if he had not heard her, yet she would not take silence for an answer. She urged her stallion to catch up with him, until they were side by side, and then suddenly reached out to grab his reins. It was such a dangerous maneuver that even a master rider like him would not attempt lightly. She must have lost her balance instantly, for in the blink of an eye his horse was dragging her down from hers. As soon as he saw that, he dropped his bow to reach for her and fell with her.

It took more effort than he had expected to regain his sense of orientation. He shook his head and found himself no longer on horseback, but on the ground. She was next to him, with a couple grass-blades and some blood on her face, but she appeared to be fine, at least not seriously injured. So fair, so cold...that she looks more fragile than she really is, he thought, almost carried away. And she was so close that her long dark hair nearly touched his face...because he was still holding her around her waist.

'Tyelkormo,' she finally found her voice, '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 backed off. As the distance between them increased, a sharp pain assaulted him in the chest, but he took it with no visible flinch, determined to keep it inside.

She continued. 'You are my cousin. Actually you are like a brother.'

'But that is exactly what I meant.' he laughed harshly. 'Why do you apologize? There is nothing to be forgiven.' Then, with all the courage he could muster at the moment he turned to her, met her gaze and held it. 'My dear Irissë, have I done anything to make you misunderstand?'

He lied as best as he could, though he was never a good liar. But what else could he do? He was a son of Fëanor. This was the price of dignity and pride.

Now in the dream, he was granted the privilege of taking a closer look at himself. By an unexplained force he was irresistibly drawn to her, until he saw his own reflection in her bright, grey eyes, as clear as in a mirror.

On a remarkably handsome face was a casual smile, half in jest. But the eyes betrayed their master. Those were the eyes of a wounded beast. Behind the grey mists of deceit twisted white-hot flames, burning out of pain, humiliation and anger.

His eyes were burning 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 in the darkness, perfectly still. The light in her eyes was as cold as those mountains of ice in the water.

'We will take you as our own, I swe—'

'Tyelkormo!' she snapped. '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!' He blurted out those words, not because they happened to come to his mind. For a long time they had been on his mind. He pondered them. He pondered them over and over.

'And that is why I have to decline.' she held her head high, a posture he was extremely familiar with: stubborn and unruly, unlike a daughter of the House of Fingolfin, but like a son of the House of Fëanor. 'Although 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. For a moment, he was almost overtaken by the urge of knocking her unconscious and simply taking her with him, without thinking about what she might say or do afterwards. If she would hate me ever after, so be it. But another voice stopped him, rising from the darkest corner of his mind.

Even if you could take her with you, why would you do that? You know she spoke true. 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 allow it to happen? All that you cannot possess, why would you make it possible for others to take?

Let her stay here in this cold darkness, on a different side of the world. Though she will never be yours this way, at least you will not have to witness the day she becomes someone else's bride.

He turned and left without a word. He did not even look 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.'(1)

He saw it coming. He wanted to protect her from it. He put aside all the pride and bitterness and went to find her. But what did he get in return? Another rejection, direct and clear.

'Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!'(2)

He saw Maedhros silently step aside, while Curufin did not hesitate to follow their father. Mouth twitching, he prepared a smile as sullen as it was cruel. Holding his head high, he took a torch from a guard. As he strode towards those beautiful white ships, to his surprise he felt Maedhros's inquisitive gaze.

Stop being hypocritical, my brother. Your weak words and symbolic actions were all you did for your friendship. At least I have tried something better.

The fire in Losgar seemed boundless. Looking up at the red sky, he wanted to laugh, but only managed a faint smile.

(1) (2): 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 did not hear of her for a long time. In fact he thought he would never hear of her again. If she had not returned to beg for forgiveness from the Valar, she must have perished and gone to the Halls of Mandos. After all, with hröar of flesh and blood, the host of Fingolfin could not possibly cross Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice that only the Valar and Ungoliant had crossed before.

Nevertheless under the cold stars in Middle-earth he thought of her, more than once. Night seemed endless, and in those sleepless hours he extended his thoughts to the West, only to find something blocking him, shielding the Blessed Realm. The Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out. (1) The Powers of Arda seemed to have accomplished it effectively, which was impressive indeed compared to their slow and discreet actions on the matter of going after Morgoth. (2)

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

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

Yet he was far from sentimental and had no artistic qualities like his elder brother Maglor. As a son of Fëanor, he was too proud to forget what he had suffered because of her, but he would not constantly remind himself of it because he knew in his heart that he still loved her.

In the cold wind of Hithlum, he often gazed westward at the dark mountains against the deep blue sky, the only companion being a silent hound.

Fortunately, he did not need to dwell on this matter, because revenge and the Silmarils were much more important. Morgoth could not afford to leave the followers of Fëanor alone, and before long peace was broken by an onslaught from the North. Thus began Dagor-nuin-Giliath.

Unexpectedly, with Alqualondë behind, he still had no reservation or disgust for war. In fact after the shock of being taken at unawares, he quickly found himself filled with wrath as well as a thirst for blood. This time no one can say it is unrighteous. And even more unexpectedly, he showed great talent in it. His knowledge of the tongues of beasts and birds in Valinor made it easy for him to gather tidings in Middle-earth from those running away from evil creatures. The Noldor learned the whereabouts of their foes even before the Dark Lord himself did. On the east side of the mountains of Ered Wethrin, near the wellspring of Sirion, he trapped the enemy and drove all the troops that had invaded Beleriand into the Fen of Serech. Simple. Hunting strategies.

But the Enemy was stronger than they had imagined. The Noldor won the Battle-under-Stars, but suffered grievous loss. Curufinwë Fëanáro, the mighty and unmatched Spirit of Fire, met a most unusual ending, consumed by the flame of his own wrath. Morgoth, leaving the sons of Fëanor no time for grief, sent an embassy to them offering terms for a truce. Maedhros accepted the invitation hoping to gain an insight of the hidden menace, but was no match for their Enemy when it came to impudence. As the third son, he did not go with Maedhros, and when Morgoth demanded that they forsake their war in exchange of their eldest brother's life, his first reaction was 'never'. No longer would any son of Fëanor negotiate with Morgoth. Neither the blood of their father and grandfather nor an unbreakable oath could be overlooked. The House of Fëanor would continue without their brother, even the eldest.

Refusing to compromise, the remaining host of Fëanor retreated to the lake of Mithrim, for they had much to rebuild and recover. Maglor took the place of Maedhros for the time being, though it was no secret that he needed more than time to adapt to his new role.

Therefore when Curufin came to have a word with him, he was not surprised.

'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 spoke wisely regardless of his true motivation. One could not count on something like Noldolantë to move the Enemy, not to mention that it was not the best time to mourn for the Fall of the Noldor when the Noldor still faced present danger. Maglor was too soft to be a great leader. Worse still, he strove to put morality before everything else, including critical matters such as defense and vengeance.

Ridiculous. At Losgar none of us was innocent. Perhaps our eldest brother could say that he expressed his opinion at least, but what excuse can you find, 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 the leadership, and you have my support.'

He needed no further indication. He might be hasty in temper, but being a master of strategies and tactics he was not simple-minded. He laughed. 'I cannot be a leader alone. We as brothers will decide our course of actions together.'

They both knew what that implied. Amrod and Amras being the youngest were in no position to lead, while Caranthir always preferred to handle matters of warfare than daily routine. Along with Caranthir and Curufin he could restore order to the House of Fëanor, if Maglor became a leader in name.

None of them took into consideration the kingship left behind by Maedhros, because none of them found it important. And none of them made attempts of rescuing Maedhros, because none of them thought it possible.

'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 brother?

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

The Moon was rising.

Silver, not as pure as the light of Telperion, but far brighter than the stars.

And the trumpets of Fingolfin were heard on the shores of Middle-earth.

However unlooked-for their coming was, facing the potential rage of his father's half-brother was the least of his concerns. When the Sun was also rising, he stood in front of the camp near the lake of Mithrim and gazed at the banner of blue and silver billowing afar in the golden light, feeling almost lost. Now he knew for sure that she was alive. She survived the hard journey across Helcaraxë with her father and brothers. What could he say or do if he met her again? And what would she say or do if she met him?

...Knowing more about animals than people...

Nevertheless he began the painful process of reasoning. Long ago when she discovered his trick she took instant revenge by commanding her horse to tread on him. Now his house had betrayed hers by deserting them to hunger and death, and he had betrayed her by burning the ships in Losgar despite his attempt of persuading her to come with him. What would she do to take revenge on him this time? Burying him with all the icebergs of Helcaraxë, or stripping him of the last secret hope by another ruthless rejection? He thought she would do both, though in no particular order.

So he chose to distance himself.

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

'What?!' Caranthir burst out. 'Are you afraid of them?'

He gave his dark-haired brother a warning look. 'Moryo, mind your temper.' Bad temper, even worse than mine. But I am the one called hasty-riser. Has our mother's foresight turned out to be inaccurate, or have we both changed? 'As you can see, we are outnumbered. I will not risk any conflict.' And do you really want to fight them? They are not the Teleri but the Noldor.

'Turko's words show insight.' Maglor supported him, as expected. Curufin said nothing at the time but found him later in person, obviously unconvinced of the reasons he had stated. 'Turko, you have not made this decision because of her, have you?'

These words got him on his feet in the blink of an eye. His care for her was no secret, but it had been one of those unspoken things that had better remain unspoken. But Curufin reassured him before he could speak. 'I apologize if I am wrong. I mean no offense. You made a wise decision, and I simply hope you will always make them wisely.'

He saw no mockery in Curufin's eyes. Or there could be, but he could not tell. When they rebelled against the Valar and went into exile, Curufin's wife remained behind. With only his son Celebrimbor at his side when coming to Middle-earth, Curufin seemed to have no reason to bring up such an uncomfortable topic just to vex him.

He decided to accept Curufin's apology but found himself unable to provide reassurance, for it was ironic enough for Curufin to call his decision wise. What would he do in the future, if circumstances set him directly against her? He had no answer indeed.

Neither of them knew then that they need not worry about future. Soon afterwards their cousin Fingon accomplished something no one had ever imagined: he went to Thangorodrim alone and delivered his friend of old from the long and terrible torture. Maedhros, the eldest son and heir of Fëanor, was back.

Maedhros's recovery took less time than most had expected. Of course, he was different now: he lost his right hand, which was the price one would pay for their mistakes when dealing with Morgoth. But he was still tall and strong, well-shaped, easily spotted by his luxurious copper hair, and in all ways a natural born leader. Indeed nothing could stop him from reclaiming the leadership. After all, he was the eldest, the most experienced, and once one of the best warriors among them. Yet he made his position clear: if his younger brothers suspected his fighting capabilities were compromised because of the lost hand, they were all more than welcome to test him out.

Maedhros must have carefully prepared for this day. Without painstaking practice one could not learn to fight without his previous sword hand, not to mention fight even better.

'By now Findekáno must have become a double-handed warrior,' Curufin suggested later. But he had no interest in Fingon's newly acquired skills. All that mattered to him was the look in his eldest brother's eyes when Maedhros's sword broke through his defense and stopped at his chest. However painful it was, he had to admit his defeat, because there was no other choice.

Thus it happened that Maedhros regained his status, more convincingly than ever, because this time it was not mostly due to his earlier birth than others. Maglor was truly relieved, so were Amrod and Amras. Even Caranthir accepted it after watching Maedhros's demonstration of strength. As a matter of fact, the House of Fëanor was again under one command of a powerful leader, and those who had to step down because of it drew no more attention than mists before dawn. Perhaps we should feel relieved that someone is eager to take on all the responsibilities for us. But without them preoccupying his mind, more disturbing than any loss of power or status, the shadow he once freed himself from crept back.

Fortunately again, he had no time to dwell on it. To everyone's surprise, the first decision made by Maedhros extended the loss to the entire House of Fëanor.

'I will give up the kingship to Fingolfin.'

'Why?' Caranthir cried in disbelief. 'Is that your way of showing gratitude to Findekáno, just because he saved your life?'

At that the light in Maedhros's eyes suddenly became so intimidating that Caranthir almost choked on his own words. But when the copper-haired prince spoke after a pause he was rather calm, even a little amused. 'I have been thinking about a list of presents I would like to send him for saving my life, but the kingship of the House of Fëanor is certainly not on it. However,' the smile on his face vanished. 'I do not believe we can defeat our Enemy and fulfill our Oath without the support of the other two houses. If a crown is what they desire most, let them have it. Without it the House of Fëanor will still survive and prosper. It is a small price to pay for what we need.'

'Then the House of Fëanor is truly dispossessed.' Curufin said softly. 'It was told in the Prophecy of the North.'

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

As a son of Fëanor he was required to attend the kingship handover ceremony. According to Maedhros, they were princes of the House of Fëanor as well as the House of Finwë, and the House of Finwë would not be divided any longer. How hypocritical is that, my dear brother. But as soon as he realized the full meaning of it, he dropped all his sarcasm. The House of Finwë. Then would she be there too?

Actually, she was not there. For that, he could not tell whether he was disappointed or relieved. So, did she also choose to distance herself? Maybe it turned out to be too difficult to bury him with all the icebergs of Helcaraxë, even for her. But does it mean she has no wish to do so? Or does it not? He forced himself to stop his wandering thoughts when his head began to ache. Her absence does not mean anything. Everything about her was enigmatic, as ever.

But the Noldor were finally reunited after temporary confusion and earnest reconciliation. Later they surveyed the lands and established new realms in Beleriand. As a result, the House of Fëanor owned the east side. Now he became the Lord of Himlad along with Curufin, with the Pass of Aglon between Dorthonion and Himring also under his command. Some years later, Fingolfin held a feast near the pools of Ivrin, somewhere on the west side of Sirion. He received the invitation but declined, and at Mereth Aderthad, Maedhros and Maglor were the only two sons of Fëanor. By chance and by effort, he successfully avoided meeting her in person since she came to Middle-earth. All he knew was that she first went to Nevrast with Turgon and then left Nevrast for a hidden city of which the location remained unknown to most.

(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 only represents one kind of possible 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 last time Morgoth caused significant damage to the Noldor. Of course, that did not mean the Dark Lord never tested them after his bitter defeat of Dagor-nuin-Giliath. A great army of Orcs once was sent swarming towards the highland of Dorthonion, where Angrod and Aegnor were stationed. Some of them even broke through the Pass of Sirion and the Gap of Maglor and entered Beleriand. But in the end it only served to give the Noldor the glory of Dagor Aglareb. Fingolfin and Maedhros did not 'wander abroad with little thought of war' as the Enemy had expected. As the main host of the Dark Lord was attacking the sons of Finarfin, troops from Hithlum and Himring closed in from west and east and crushed their foes like iron between hammer and anvil.

He remembered how they pursued Orcs across Ard-galen and destroyed them to the last. It was then that he came to understand why his father had made such a rash decision of going deep into the dark realm with only a few guards. Let the foul blood of evil creatures spill under bright blades. Let the limbs of filthy monsters break under thundering hooves. And Huan was never far from him. The hound of Valinor mercilessly slaughtered all enemies in his way. But Maedhros signaled a stop when they approached the border of Dor Daedeloth, where Curufinwë Fëanáro was surrounded and made his last stand. Instinctively, he looked west. Beyond a field of riders bearing the Star of Fëanor, across the grey and barren plain, there appeared another sea of riders led by a royal banner of blue and silver, under which King Fingolfin sat on his great white steed.

Acting in unison, Fingolfin and Maedhros left their main hosts and rode towards each other. When the banners of two houses flew together, the dark-haired king looked at the copper-haired prince and spoke first. 'A great victory.'

Without hesitation, Maedhros lowered his head to the King. 'It belongs to the Noldor.'

Fingolfin nodded. 'And the Noldor will own it, now united by kinship and friendship.'

The King spoke true. Afterwards there was a long peace, long and tedious, at least in the east. After Dagor Aglareb, Morgoth seemed to have learned the vigilance of Maedhros and turned his nose to the House of Fingolfin. Orcs came around Ered Lómin, crossed Lammoth, and assaulted Hithlum from the west. But Fingon, no less vigilant than Maedhros, had already received tidings in Dor-lómin before they arrived. The Prince of Hithlum waited for them at the Firth of Drengist and easily drove all of them into the cold sea of Belegaer: a clean victory indeed. Another remarkable event was the coming of an evil creature that had not been seen before: a dragon. Again, Fingon the Valiant led archers on horseback to meet him and defeated him, driving him all the way back to Angband.

He learned of those incidents. He wished that Morgoth could deploy such things to the east someday, for he felt he was simply loafing around. Often he rode to the north through the Pass of Aglon and surveyed the vast grassland of Ard-galen from the hills of Himring, by day or by night, knowing a siege of Angband was in place: Fingolfin and Fingon on the west, Angrod and Aegnor on the south, and the sons of Fëanor on the east. It appeared that the Noldor had successfully kept Morgoth at bay, and his father's words, a promise of unclouded sky, sweet water, wide lands, and free people, had come true in the end.

Everything seemed good except the Shadow in the North. But the smoke above Thangorodrim had also become so thin that it could barely be seen from afar. Moreover, why would he worry about it? He was no longer the one who must plan for the future, for his eldest brother had taken that painstaking responsibility from him. In those peaceful days, the Dark Lord gradually faded from his mind.

We may not be watching the same land now, but we must be watching the same stars.

He gave his horse leave to wander freely and sat down next to Huan. Late at night in the ever cold wind of Himring, the warmth from the hound certainly offered comfort.

As peaceful days continued, it did not take long for the Noldorin princes to fall back on their sport of old: hunting. His favorite hunting site was the forests and fields in the south, the land of Amrod and Amras. Back in the days when they first came to East Beleriand, the twins had been unwilling to stay far away from enemy lines. Amrod even protested to Maedhros once, with Amras chiming in, but Maedhros simply smiled before speaking, despite their disobedience. 'You are sent there because you are needed there. If I am not mistaken, you two are great hunters among the Noldor.'

'No better than Turko,' said Amrod.

'Why not send Turko there then? He even has Huan for his aid.' continued Amras.

Maedhros's smile deepened. 'Because I need Turko here. He knows the tongues of birds and beasts, and it has been proven that they can be very helpful in our wars.' then he smiled no more. 'Rear and front are equally important, Ambarussa. We need to know with full confidence that the lands behind us are secure.'

The twins exchanged a look, shrugged, and then conceded.

Now riding with his younger brothers in the beautiful wild of East Beleriand, hunting, feasting, or resting at will, he saw no issue except that sometimes they might run into their cousins from Nargothrond. He held no prejudice against Finrod, but Caranthir obviously had no will to conceal his scorn towards the House of Finarfin. Even though Finrod was always diplomatic, from time to time they still parted on bad terms.

But that was no disaster as they could go to Thargelion instead. Near the shore of Lake Helevorn, on the western slopes of Mount Rerir, Caranthir built his fortress. In fact, Curufin preferred there, for it was closer to Belegost and Nogrod, cities of the Dwarves, hidden in the great mountains of Ered Luin. Caranthir had no love for Dwarves, viewing them as ugly and secretive creatures, but Curufin, named for his resemblance to their father in both appearance and talent, spoke highly of the achievements of the Dwarves in smith work. In Himlad, Curufin often spent time with Dwarves who traveled into Beleriand for trade, learning their knowledge, and in exchange he taught them the language and lore of the Noldor. Among all the Noldorin princes, Curufin probably had the most interest in them and had much more in common with them, although Maedhros also won the friendship of Azaghâl, the King of Belegost. By Curufin's effort, the Noldor benefited from the experience and skills of the Dwarves, and the Dwarves were amazed by the steel-tempering technique of the Noldor.

Thus it happened that he and Curufin visited the fortress of Rerir more often than they went to the south. Sometimes Caranthir sent an invitation, and sometimes they simply went there knowing they would be welcomed. In Thargelion everyone was free to pursue their own interest: he went hunting with Caranthir, while Curufin accommodated the Dwarves, usually along with Celebrimbor, his greatly talented son.

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

'Lord Celegorm, there is something we believe you would like to know as soon as possible.' said the messenger.

'Tell me.' He twisted his wrist swiftly, diverting a powerful blow from Caranthir. Caranthir reacted instantly, sword flashing an arc both blocking his attack and posing a 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 out of his grasp. Caranthir was more confused than excited for winning so easily and Curufin, previously appearing indifferent to the arrival of the messenger, now looked up.

'Is she not staying with Turgon?' He said, feeling that his heart skipped a beat. 'In a city that only its dwellers know where it is?'

'Lady Aredhel indeed came from the Hidden City, my lord. She said she came to see you, her brother and friend of old.'

Like all the water in Helevorn was splashed on his face, he suddenly felt icy cold. Brother and friend. She must have chosen those words on purpose, she must have. 'I come to see you now, but there is nothing different than before' was what she meant to convey to him. That must be her purpose.

'Then I think we should prepare to go back.' Curufin stood up, took the knife from Celebrimbor, and set it on the belt at his side. He sounded calm and casual, leaving no trace for others to speculate what was on his mind.

'Wait.' He hardly recognized his own voice. Curufin raised an eyebrow, but Caranthir was still busy wiping off sweat from his forehead, paying no heed to what he had said.

'Why go back in such a hurry?' he said, after regaining his self-control. For a moment, he even wished that he could be one of the House of Fingolfin, because, if that were true, he would not have had to muster all his courage just to appear lighthearted. 'Do you not have the plan of meeting the Naugrim from Belegost, Kurvo?'

Curufin looked at him for a while before speaking. 'You know her very well, Turko. She may not have the patience to wait, even for you.'

It would be better if she had it not, he thought bitterly. But what if she does? After all, she had been waiting so long that her patience had gone far beyond his expectation. Now she finally came, reminding him of her, but instead of reconciling she emphasized their past, a past unpleasant for him and probably no more pleasant for her. She means to force me to face her. But for what?

He could not go back at any rate. He could not go back.

A guard picked up his sword for him, which gave him the opportunity of concealing his anxiety. He took the sword and slid it back to its sheath in a single graceful move. 'She will not mind. You know that she is our friend.'

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

Satisfied with Curufin's response, he turned to Caranthir, feeling much more relaxed to speak to this brother. 'It was an accident, Moryo. I propose another match. I want no reputation of having been defeated by a younger brother.'

Caranthir snorted. 'You have never won so far, Turko, nor will you.'

'Well,' he smiled. 'We will see.' Without warning, he drew his sword and attacked, lightning fast. As several pieces of slashed laces fell from his brother's tunic, he rested his sword at Caranthir's chest, with a different kind of smile slowly climbing to his lips, far from righteous.

Caranthir was taken aback and then furious. 'What on Arda is this, Turko?'

'Call it my win,' he withdrew his sword gracefully, full of mockery. In a split of a second, Caranthir drew his own sword and stared at him. After a brief moment of silence, the clanging and scraping rang again in the courtyard.

Watching them a little longer, Curufin slightly shook his head and then left with Celebrimbor.

So he stayed at Rerir, along with Curufin and Celebrimbor. Time passed relentlessly: late spring became a blossom summer, and summer turned into a golden fall. When the cold winter arrived, his reputation of a hasty-riser was recognized by all, for he became more and more ill at ease. Then came the day when he lost control during a match of swordplay with Caranthir and wounded his brother in the forearm. But what happened next was inexplicable even to himself: he exploded with rage and blamed his brother with abandon, while he was actually the one who should be blamed.

With a temper no better than his, of course Caranthir did not take it well. If Curufin had not been informed and arrived in time, the consequences could have been disastrous and made Morgoth laugh in his dark dreams. That night he lay in bed in his own chamber, staring at the patterns on the ceiling, sleepless and absent-minded. When Curufin came in, he was not surprised.

'I will not apologize.' he said flatly.

'And I will not ask you to apologize, my brother.' answered Curufin.

He did not expect such an answer. He turned his head and saw his younger brother standing straight with a calm face, thoughts impossible to speculate. Maybe my most dangerous brother is him, he thought. Curufin's calmness was much more difficult to deal with than Caranthir's wrath. And my own people in Himlad - do they obey more my temper or Curufin's words? But he immediately dismissed these doubts, for they were groundless. Curufin had done nothing against him so far. He knew that, better than any one else.

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

He made no answer, and Curufin continued without waiting for him to answer.

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

'That is none of your business,' he replied harshly.

At that Curufin said nothing. His brother simply took a step back, turned, and started to walk towards the door. But before leaving his chamber, Curufin spoke again, calm as always. 'I am your brother, Turko, and I mean no harm to you. Keep it in mind.'

The sound of the door closing was almost imperceptible. He turned his head back and fixed his eyes on the ceiling again, until those patterns began to blur and fade and he finally sank into Irmo's domain.

The Light of the Two Trees was shining upon the endless fields of grass dotted with flowers of all colors. Bathing in silver and gold, two riders passed, swift like wind.

'I like leopards better.' she said, dressed all in white. 'They have more grace than lions have.'

'You will see the same in their tongues.' he agreed. 'But I have to tell you, those two said your fur is too conspicuous to be a good hunter.'

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

'You know you will not win.'

'I also know I will not even have the chance to win if I do not try.' she countered, and suddenly looked up. 'Wait. Look, a swan!'

'Are you certain?' he turned and looked up with her. She was right. There was indeed a large swan, with white wings and a graceful long neck, too striking to be mistaken. But knowing their nature very well, he found it very unusual for one of them to appear here, in the fields of Valinor.

Raising his voice, he called the proud bird in a tongue she understood not. After a pause he repeated the call, and she took note of the difference. 'Why did you use different tones?'

'I had an accent of the Noldor at first.' He explained, still gazing at the bird, which was now circling down towards them. 'He is not accustomed to it. He is from the city and harbour of Alqualondë.'

'Then he must be one of those given by Ossë the Maia to the Teleri.' as she dismounted from her horse, the silver ribbon fastening her dark hair into one braid flashed a bright arc in the wind. 'Ask him why he came to Valinor.'

'I would rather ask him where his mate is.' he also jumped off and went beside her. 'A swan is usually with his mate, if he has chosen one.'

The swan landed in front of them, folding his white wings gracefully. He nodded and made a gesture; in response, the swan bent his long neck and made several calls. She stood aside watching, as surprised as fascinated, for his pride, prominent and nearly tangible, had disappeared without a trace.

'You look strange.' She remarked.

He gave her a side look. 'What is strange?'

'You look almost amiable.'

'That is nothing strange.' he was puzzled. 'If you know them, you will know what they require of you: respect.'

'No,' she smiled mischievously. 'What is strange to me is that amiability makes you very...unnatural.'

Realizing she intended to make fun of him, he took a deep breath and turned back to the swan, as if the white bird had become the center of the World. Seeing him vexed, she smiled again and remained silent until he finished. 'What did you say to him?'

'Something unnatural.'

'What did you say to him?' she repeated her question, still smiling, ignoring his sarcasm.

Knowing she would make no concession to him, he sighed. 'He is looking for his mate. He has searched everywhere near the sea, and now he plans to search every inch of the fields of Valinor.'

'He lost his mate?' she was caught off guard. 'How did it 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: husband and wife, once the bond is made, it will last to the end.'

'But we are not always like that,' she muttered. 'Otherwise I would not have existed.'

He did not comment at once. Instead, he reached out to the swan, which now appeared very lonely and deserted.

'For the House of Curufinwë Fëanáro, it will always be like that.' he said at last. 'My father demands it from us.'

She started to speak but uttered no word. After a long while of silence she walked past him and up to the swan, and dropped to one knee in front of the bird, looking into his eyes. When she spoke she was serious, even solemn. 'I believe you will find her. However much effort it will require, or however much time it will take.'

...You will find her. However much effort it will require, or however much time it will take...

It suddenly became cold. Clouds gathered, mists arose, and soon there was darkness everywhere, along with cold, unbearable cold. It was no ordinary cold of winter. It seemed to have a life of its own, built out of malice and cruelty, infiltrating mind and body, numbing all senses. It chilled blood and bone, killed hope and laughter, and filled the world with a terrible emptiness.

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

What is this place? He reached for his sword, only to find it was not at his side. Fortunately there was no threat. It seemed to be still and silent all around, with no sign of life.

Little by little, out of the deathly silence, his keen Elven ears caught some sound. So strange, yet so familiar. It was the sound he heard on the white ships near Araman, but it was faint and remote then, overwhelmed by howling winds.

It was the screeching, rolling, and crashing of ice.

Why am I here? For a moment, he was at a loss. This must be the Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice.

A light appeared then, dim, but enough to illuminate his surroundings. He looked up and saw thick clouds above had rolled aside and left a gap, revealing cold, remote stars. He made one step and found himself standing knee-deep in the snow, which stretched to the end of his sight, along with tremendous icebergs and treacherous walls of ice. On the boundless barren field, he seemed to be the only living creature.

The Grinding Ice...but he came to Middle-earth by sea and never set foot on that frozen hell in the North. Why was he here? Or, why did it feel so real?

He had no wish to stay here. He must start moving. Just when he made another step, he heard a different sound, a sound that could not possibly exist here: the thundering of hooves.

It was fast approaching, so fast that he believed it was the swiftest horse he had ever known. He turned abruptly and saw a silver mare, coming out of the night and galloping towards him, whose rider wore a cloak white as snow, billowing behind like wings in the cold wind. In a split of a second, the horse was near at hand, but the rider showed not the least sign to slow down.

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

But he felt no impact on his skull; instead, there came a sudden whinny, close at hand. He opened his eyes just in time to see the mare standing right in front of him on her hind legs, for the rider tightened the reins at the last moment.

An understanding assailed him. Without thinking, he dashed to the side, dodged falling hooves, rushed forward to grab the reins, and dragged the rider down by her waist - yes, her. He knew it was her. He knew it at the first sight.

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

The hood of her cloak fell down. Her dark hair was set free and caught in the wind, brushing his face and blinding his eyes. He was holding her around her waist, but it no longer felt like the thinness and frailty of a child. She was tall and strong, yet slim and sinewy; he could feel her well-toned muscle and was impressed by its strength, coordination, and firmness. And to his surprise, she did not struggle. In a moment that felt endless, they stood still as stone, until he sensed a hesitant touch on his face, cold and hot all at once. Then, as if a resolution were finally reached, the same slender fingers brushed aside his hair and slid past his ears, and the elegant arms went around his neck and closed into a warm embrace.

He shivered. He thought this could not be true. Holding his breath, he mustered all his courage to look into her eyes, but strangely enough, he saw not her but himself, his own image reflected in her eyes.

A beast fed up with conflicts. A fëa almost torn from its hröa by a deep, lasting pain.

He could no longer bear to see it. Closing his eyes and driving away all the strange thoughts, he took a deep breath, pulled her closer, and lowered his head.

Chapter 5. The Unforgiven: Part Two

All of a sudden, he was pulled back to reality, as if the link to the dream world had been severed by a sharp blade. He sat up abruptly, eyes struggling to focus, but when he finally regained the sense of orientation, he began to tremble.

In front of his eyes was only darkness, and in his hands only air.

He bit his lips and tasted his own blood. He closed his eyes almost desperately, wishing to withdraw from reality again, back into that world he saw so vividly in the dream. All that had come to pass lingered: on his chest was her warmth, and in his arms her shape. Not realizing what he was doing, he ran a finger across his lips and was instantly overwhelmed by a tide of emotion he never thought he still possessed. Loss, anger, sorrow, frustration, helplessness, and bitterness: all streamed in and formed a tremendous eddy, in the center of which he was carried away like a leaf in the rapids.

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

He sprang out of bed. Action was his expertise but contemplation was not. Now he must go back, whatever he might have to face.

When he left the fortress of Rerir, all he chose to bring with him was his sword, the sword his father made for every son of Fëanor. In the darkness before dawn, his white stallion galloped across the land of Thargelion like a flash of lightning, and Huan followed as always.

The journey back to Himlad took a whole day. His people were surprised to find him at the gate before the first light appeared in the east, but he did not bother to explain. He simply demanded: 'Where is she?'

He knew that even as one who had seen the Light, he had overused his strength. With little rest, he already felt a weariness building up inside of him, true and heavy. But he ignored it. In the first fire of the sun, his eyes blazed fiercely like burning stars.

'Do you refer to Lady Aredhel, my lord?' The guard's easy tone almost infuriated him. He felt an urge for a moment, of grasping the guard right against the chest and shouting some sense into him, yet he only dismounted from his horse. It was one of those very few moments in his life when he managed to hold his temper. 'Yes. Did you not send to Rerir saying she is here? Aredhel Ar-Feiniel.' Would you ask me next if I am referring to the White Lady of the Noldor?

'Lady Aredhel is gone.'

Reins still in hand, he froze. The last bit of consciousness seemed to have abandoned him, leaving in his mind pure blankness. Unaware of his reaction, the guard continued, and his clear Elven voice sounded extremely remote and bizarre.

'It was the day before yesterday that she decided to leave, just before dawn. There was nothing we could do to change her mind, my lord, although we did try.'

The day before yesterday. Just before dawn. When did I have that dream? How could it be so real?

'After all, this is not the first time she has set off alone. Lady Aredhel kept saying that her life here was no different from the boredom in the Hidden City. She often rode to the forests and fields in the south - alone, for she did not wish to be escorted - and came back safe. We expect nothing different this time.'

You fool, it will be different. It will never be the same again.

'Lord Celegorm?'

He was called back to reality not by the guard but by a gentle nudge from Huan. Inhaling briefly, he found his hands trembling. Maybe he drained all his strength; or maybe...

Without a word, he turned and mounted his horse again. 'Come with me,' he told Huan and directed his stallion to head south, leaving a shocked guard and an exhausting journey behind.

...You will find her. However much effort it will require, or however much time it will take...

He searched. He searched indeed. He searched every inch of the land of Himlad, but she was not there. She seemed to have simply vanished without a trace. He asked all the birds and beasts he met along the way. He sent to Amrod and Amras, even to Caranthir, inquiring of news about her. But the answers were the same: no one had seen her. She had never been to Thargelion or the forests in the south. In the end, he had to wonder if his people had fallen under some strange enchantment, for how could she have come? She should have stayed with her brother in a city no one knew about, which at least was what he had learned. Why would she suddenly come out alone, to look for him, if he betrayed her in Losgar and showed no regret for it?

Nevertheless, his heart told him she had come indeed.

He once passed Nan Elmoth but dismissed the idea that she might be there. Eöl, the Dark Elf who lived in that sunless valley, was known for preferring the Dwarves over the Noldor - in fact, he hated the Noldor, of whom she was doubtlessly one.

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

Eventually he had to end the search. When he decided to give up, his mind appeared to be torn into two unrelated halves: one was struggling and screaming in memories and dreams, while the other was detached and filled with 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 do you plan to live in lies? She has never given you what you desire. As for this time, did she not destroy your pride a second time and leave you in pain and confusion? It was nothing but her perfect revenge.

At some point, two voices managed to merge into one.

Now you know what you need to do, for you have handled it once.

But why was it so difficult if he merely followed an established path? If experience could help reduce the pain, why was there not even the slightest numbness?

Fortunately, there was always time enough for everything to pass 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 become bored with his daily routine and sitting now idly behind his big oak desk, he looked up with a little enthusiasm. 'Bold, but interesting.'

'Would you see them then, my lord?'

'Why would I not?' he was not afraid of assassination. As known to all, it was extremely difficult to kill a son of Fëanor, to which his eldest brother could testify. Moreover, he had his sword at his side, and he was very confident of using it effectively at need. 'Send them in.'

Soon afterwards the guests were shown into his chamber. He remained seated and looked them up and down, feeling no need to speak first. They wore grey cloaks and hid their faces under grey hoods, but their bearing was proud and lordly with careless grace, which made them most 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 want from a son of Fëanor?

Before starting to question them, he suddenly had a strange foreboding. For a moment, he could not but stare at one of them intensely, caring nothing about courtesy, for those eyes hidden in the shadow were peculiarly disturbing. Had he seen them before? And where had he seen them?

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

He jumped up, so abruptly that he crashed into his desk with an audible thump, but he hardly felt any pain, for all his senses seemed to have departed at once. Right in front of him, the one who just spoke stepped forward, took down the hood, and threw back the cloak. With that, snow-white was released from the bondage of deep grey, so bright that it was almost blinding in the sunlight of midsummer.

Then their eyes met again.

'Irissë.' He blurted out her name, as if he had never tried hard to drive it from his mind. Her name. It was her. It was indeed her. How did he convince himself that he had forgotten her? Did he not see her in his dreams over and over? Now she was here, no less beautiful than she was in his memory, hardly changed a bit.

No. His senses began to come back. Something is different. Maybe it was because she called him by his Sindarin name. It was strange to hear it from her, almost a sign that indicated an end of all that had passed.

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

'You look unchanged.' she interrupted his wild train of thought, after fixing her eyes on him for a little while. 'Yet for us, no change is expected.'

The magic dissipated. Ages ago on the green plains of Valinor, she said exactly the same words, also after a long separation from each other. At that time she rejected him with mockery, though later apologized, while he refused her apology with pride, though his pride was marred ever after.

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

He straightened himself and recollected some composure. Not until then did he notice her companion, who had been standing quietly behind her: a handsome boy, tall and strong, fair-skinned and dark-haired like her, in all ways appearing to be one of the Noldor. Still looking at her, he casually referred to the boy. 'Is he your guar—'

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

He found what she said incomprehensible at first. With great effort, piece by piece, he put her words together. As the understanding grew, he felt chilled to the bones and eventually saw the picture. He stared at her again, and this time everything fell into place - how could he possibly have been so blind? In her eyes he saw the shadow of it, and in her voice he heard the echo of it: a permanent bond, irreversible and unbreakable, by life or death, together or apart, as long as Arda endured, until the end of days.

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

He looked at the boy and back at her. She met his gaze directly, proud and stubborn, with challenge in her eyes. Suddenly he found himself detached from the world, and 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 continued. 'So I would not be rude.'

I would forget nothing you have said to me.

All of a sudden, the dream of her came to his mind, more vivid than ever. It thrust into his chest a spear of pain, at the point of which was his twitching heart, and he wondered why he still suffered if he could not feel any longer.

She did not expect his words and was rendered speechless. He saw the look on her face and recognized part of it: surprise, hesitation, and compassion - no, not exactly, for there was no compassion. Then what was it? Could it be regret?

'Lord Celegorm,' it was a third voice that broke the silence. 'I am Maeglin.'

The boy's voice was deep, melodic, and persuading, well beyond his age. Such a voice itself could serve its owner as a special power, which he had witnessed in his family. But what caught his attention was the boy's eyes: dark, not of the Calaquendi, yet extremely perceptive and penetrating, sharp indeed. Immediately he found himself hating those eyes. A simple glance of them could pick up unguarded thoughts and spy out secrets deeply buried. 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 just torn open in his heart, those dark eyes planted seeds of dark flames.

'My father is Eöl of Nan Elmoth.' continued the boy.

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

But he remained calm on the surface. He had not learned nothing from Curufin in all these years. 'Did your father send you here?'

'No, my lord. On the contrary, we disobeyed him.' The boy then gave a full account of what happened, plain but precise. They wished to visit their Noldorin kin, but they were forbidden to do so. Several days ago, Eöl accepted an invitation and left for Nogrod to join the Dwaves for a feast, so they decided to take the chance to return to the Hidden City. However, the servants of Eöl watched them closely, and they had to name their destination as Himlad. Therefore, Eöl would learn their whereabouts, and Eöl's own horse was faster than theirs.

He fixed his eyes on her while the boy was speaking. The echo of words flowed past his heart like cool water, easing urges and suppressing anger. As dark flames stopped spreading in his heart, his mood also 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 not 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 from blood and flesh, whirling and blasting, like dying ember supplied with fresh fuel. So this is how she took her revenge on me, her real revenge.

Miraculously, he still kept his face unperturbed. 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 lowered his head.

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

His lieutenant, who had been waiting outside, nodded and then opened the door for her and her son. She glanced at him before she moved, but he paid no heed. Although he was watching, everything seemed to be scattered into pieces in his eyes, illogical and meaningless. Indifferently, he watched her and her son. She turned to leave and lingered a second 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 died away he had drawn his sword, teeth clenched. A familiar urge overwhelmed him. His heart was screaming silently in the raging dark fire, and once again he understood what his father must have felt when he made the decision of rebellion against the Valar. They both lost the most important things in their lives, and the only difference was that in the madness of rage and grief his father believed they could achieve their vengeance without aid, while he knew clearly that what he wanted had completely fallen out of his grasp, to regain which there was indeed no hope.

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. It took but one glance for Curufin to evaluate the damage in the chamber, but instead of commenting on it, he simply said: 'They are leaving.'

'I know.' said he, now back 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 word to provide with them our swiftest horses?'

'Yes.' What choice do I have?

Curufin walked up to his desk, carefully keeping his feet away from the shards on the floor, for some of them were quite 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.' said Curufin, calmly as ever. 'This is your affair.'

He admitted it by staying silent, so Curufin continued. 'And if you know something about Eöl, you must also know that he will not give up easily.'

He looked up and met his brother's gaze.

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

Subtle as it was, he sensed malice in Curufin's voice and suddenly understood what Curufin was indicating. As if an icy wave had just washed over him he shook off his sullen mood and became agitated. He could not but start to imagine the pleasure he would have if he went to drive that Dark Elf out of his gloomy nest. Call me kinslayer as you wish, I will not deny it, for I do not mind living up to the reputation again if it comes to that. Having already so much blood on my hands, why would I care about one more drop of it?

But when he looked at his brother, he read more from his brother's eyes than what was said: Make your decision wisely, then you will have my support.

For a second time in his life, he pondered. As the initial urges slowly settled down a new plan, uninvited but irresistible, emerged from 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 can question him, mock him, and insult him. But afterwards, spare his life and release him.'

'Are you certain?' despite his specific instructions, Curufin asked.

He carefully sheathed his sword. The smoothness felt by his fingers was as that of silk, for a fatal weapon could conceal its blood thirst. 'We can do better than to slay one who accuses us of kinslaying, can we not?'

Both of them knew he was lying. Nevertheless Curufin accepted it with a knowing nod. 'As you wish, Turko. And good luck with whatever you have to do.'

He found her near the gate. She made ready to leave with her son, having transferred a few belongings to the horses provided to them. His order was carried out well, for these horse were his swiftest and could catch up with wind.

She nodded him a greeting, and he returned a smile. Smiling was not as difficult as he had expected. He walked up to the horses and in turn murmured into their ears. Noticing her inquisitive look, he smiled again, thankful that Huan was not around. 'Nothing but a few encouraging words.'

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

Her old jest did not have the same effect on him, so he had to pretend to be offended. 'Aredhel, I do not take it as a compliment.'

'Not indeed,' she acknowledged it with a mischievous smile. 'But it is not unfounded.'

Instead of being vexed by her, he appeared distracted by her grey cloak. It was made of a fabric woven by the hands of the Sindar, renowned for its special power of hiding from hostile eyes. He picked up a corner of it, took a quick look, and let it fall. 'You need no longer wear this. As I remembered, you chose to adhere to your habits even when you were judged by the leopards to be a poor hunter.'

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

'And we will leave him no chance to show his care this time.' he addressed the boy's concerns, but only spoke to her. Seeing the look on her face, he had to laugh. 'No, we mean no harm to him. We will simply delay him, so you will have enough time to reach your city.'

She looked him in the eye for a brief moment, and before he could react, she walked up to him, embraced him, and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. 'Turko, hantalë.' (1)

He froze, suddenly at a loss. He heard her telling her son to put away the grey Sindarin cloak and take out her white Noldorin mantle. He watched her throw it across her shoulders and re-assume her well-known, well-deserved name: the White Lady of the Noldor. After that, without bidding farewell, she mounted her horse, nodded at him, and set off. As she approached the gate along with her son, he finally recovered from the loss and nearly changed his mind. He wanted to call them back and he even considered backing off from his decision. But he kept silence in the end. In the cold wind from Himring, the warmth her lips left on his cheek gradually cooled.

Their horses would neigh once they reached their destination. Her white clothes would be a most conspicuous mark.

And then Eöl would find them.

It was Curufin who secured the outcome. At the Fords of Aros, the riders of Curufin waylaid Eöl when he appeared as expected. Curufin humiliated him first and dismissed him with mockery, knowing someone like that would never turn back.

'In the end I suggested he go back to his dwellings in the dark forests,' Curufin told him after returning to Himlad. 'I told him, if he now pursues those who love him no more, never will he return there.'

'Thus you actually made him more determined to go after them?' he asked, puzzled.

'Yes.' Curufin confirmed without hesitation. 'It is the only possible reaction of his.'

He had no reason to question Curufin's judgment, for Curufin always knew other minds better than he did. But after Curufin left, he found himself dwelling on his brother's words. If to pursue those who love you no more is a way of no return, then, what is it to retaliate against the one who loves you not?

Several days later, in the darkness before dawn, he suddenly woke up, though there was no nightmare. Something was wrong, and he could feel it from head to heel, in every drop of his blood. Anxiously and restlessly, he stared into the darkness, until a voice drifted into his consciousness and easily invaded his mind, like a ghost crossing the invisible barrier between reality and the dream world.

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

For a second, his heart stopped beating. He was instantly covered with cold sweat and shivered, fanatically searching in his heart for the deeply buried figure, the one he had once tried so hard to forget. But everything seemed to be fading and withering, like a sandy shore washed by relentless waves. He searched and searched, desperately, now clinging to the voice once so vivid in his memory, at least that voice: You will find her. However much effort it will require, or however much time it will take.

But again, he found her not.

Nan Elmoth was to the south of Himlad. After crossing the fords of Celon, he stopped near the bank, surveying the dark, forest-covered valley ahead. At his side was the hound of Valinor, who had shaken water off his thick fur.

'Enjoy yourself nearby.' He dismounted from his horse. The stallion snuffled lightly and walked towards a patch of grass.

He looked up and surveyed the forests again. Even from a distance he could sense the ancientness of it. The trees of Nan Elmoth were the tallest and darkest in all Beleriand; it was said that Melian the Maia once walked there in the twilight of Middle-earth. It was in this place that she met Elu Thingol; and it was in this place they gazed at each other while long years passed which could only be measured by the wheeling stars.

A fascinating tale, nothing more.

He was dressed plainly, like an ordinary Noldorin hunter: no expensive armors, no emblems of his house, no embroidery on his clothes. He carried only a bow and arrow, and his sword. Although his sword was far from plain and ordinary, he hid it carefully under his cloak and made sure it would not be easily noticed.

Even then, he was uncertain what he had hoped to find in these woods. He knew Eöl was not here, for his guards never saw the Dark Elf returning from the west. As Curufin said, a way of no return.

Then what am I doing here?

A sudden pain assaulted him. Despite himself, he reached into his cloak and closed his fingers around the sword hilt, feeling the gems on it pressing hard against his palm. Cursing himself again, he struggled to push her image out of his mind. Yet it will be in vain, for you cannot and will not forget her. Fool, you loved her, you loved her indeed. But when your love was doomed to be unrequited, you chose to destroy her, not once but twice, until you succeeded.

He took a deep breath and released his sword. Journeying here all the way from Himlad, he did not purpose to get lost in wild thoughts. He had things to do.

'Stay here.' he told the hound.

Huan looked up at him with concern.

'Stay here.' he repeated. 'I know what I am doing.'

The hound obeyed. Nevertheless, when he set off, he felt Huan's gaze, until he entered the woods and left the hound's sight.

At first he simply wandered. Tall trees and low bushes were everywhere, of which he recognized only a few kinds. Branches and leaves danced above, slowly and strangely, in a hypnotic rhythm; time seemed to stand still in these sunless woods. From time to time he heard nightingales singing, but he could not locate them because they sounded too remote and too indistinct. Maybe the tales are true, he could not but think. There is magic in this forest.

His steps must have been louder than he had thought; or he must have underestimated the vigilance of its inhabitants. When a dark figure came out of the bushes and stopped him, he was startled but refrained from reaching for his sword, for he saw it was a Grey Elf, dressed all in black, obviously a servant of Eöl's.

'You are a Golodh.' the Elf concluded at a glance, which was not surprising, for his eyes were those of the Calaquendi, made rather conspicuous by the darkness.

He nodded. 'I came here after my quarry, but got lost.'

The Elf looked him up and down and seemed to be convinced. 'I will lead you out. But be careful 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 commented, more naturally than he had hoped.

'Yes,' the Elf brushed a curtain of vines aside and revealed a hidden trail. 'With the only exception of Lady Aredhel. But even she has to obey Lord Eöl's laws.'

He did not expect to hear her name so soon, and those words about her almost caught him off guard. Obey? She obeyed no one, except her father. But to his own surprise, he managed to control himself and followed the Elf to the trail. 'If I am not mistaken, did you refer to Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady?'

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

'I suppose you intended to say the Lady of Nan Elmoth.' he had to struggle to keep his voice steady.

'She is.' the Elf said, unaware of his change of tone. 'She obeys him nonetheless. She is not allowed to go to sunny places, or leave here alone.'

In his mind, these words turned into a vision: a maiden, ever free and unruly, was trapped in a narrow dark valley, withering like a picked flower. 'No.' he blurted out the first word that came to his mind. 'No.'

The Elf turned and looked at him. 'It is the fact. She chose to stay, knowing all his laws.'

The vision shifted. Now she wandered alone, in the shadows that the sun was unable to penetrate, in the woods where ancient magic lingered. She was astray and tired, but she was not afraid; for why would she be afraid? As one of the House of Finwë, she was always fearless. But other eyes watched her as she moved, eyes darker than the night. In those eyes, her presence roused suspicion and conflict, but kindled a desire in the end.

'No. She could not have thus chosen to stay.' despite all his effort so far, he stubbornly repeated. 'She could not have been willing to stay.' Like one drowning would grab at a straw, he had to hold on 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 died, which is the nature of the Eld—'

The Elf did not finish his last word. Against the making of the mightiest craftsman of the Noldor, the mail of galvorn was but a thin layer of parchment paper. A sharp blade ran through it like a knife running through butter, slid past the ribs, and drove into the heart.

'I wish to listen no more.' to the Elf whose eyes were already unfocused, he said softly, and then pulled out his sword with a jerk. Blood spilled onto his fingers and wrist, 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, without a sound. As the sky darkened, a wind arose, and he sniffed the air. Suddenly, he stood up and stared at the silent forests intensely, filled with anxiety and vigilance. Against the gloom of dark trees gradually emerged a dim figure, sword already in sheath, cloak flapping in the wind. But the hound was still alert, for he smelled blood.

Slowly, his master and friend walked to him, stopped in front of him, and looked him in the eye. In an immeasurable moment they held each other's gaze, until the hound chose to look away at last. Because he had never seen his prince so disturbed, not even ages ago, when they were at the Haven of the Swans, bathed in blood.

Almost simultaneously, the proud prince dropped to his knees and held 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 all stood up. 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 from forges, ovens, and fireplaces that they had known for ages. On a winter night without moon, Morgoth suddenly unleashed his long prepared strength. The onrush of evil fire was so swift that in several hours it engulfed all the green grass and sweet waters in Ard-galen and lit the forests on the highland of Dorthonion and the eastern slopes of Ered Wethrin.

Thus began Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

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

So this is the consequence of relying on others for our war, he thought. If it were us who had gone to meet this monster decades ago, we probably would have cut off his head and made a real Dragon-helm out of it.

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

He mounted his steed again. From where he was, he could survey the battlefield near the northern entry of the pass. The enemies had been attacking relentlessly for five days. Orcs swarmed towards the pass like an endless dark tide and rushed forward despite the rain of arrows and stones, treading on corpses of their own kind, which had piled high on the northern side. The battle once even drew near his own standard and he was forced into combat. Huan guarded his side as ever, and their tacit cooperation destroyed foes beyond count.

Now he looked at the northern entry, wondering if Morgoth had given up taking this place. It is more difficult to defeat us. His troops were busy sharpening weapons, changing posts, and caring for the wounded, knowing how precious these quiet hours were.

Quiet, but too quiet. It was then that he realized something went wrong. Too late. The enemies attacked again before he could investigate further, and this time it was not Orcs but Balrogs emerging out of smoke and dust. Shadow and fire ravaged the pass, and Elven warriors were falling like leaves.

As he was telling his herald to send aid, Curufin hastened back, covered with blood and dust. 'The fortress of Rerir has fallen. Moryo is retreating to the South.'

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

Curufin nodded.

It did not take long for him to decide. 'Prepare to retreat.' he turned to tell 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. But he found himself rather indifferent. After all, was it really so unusual? He had tasted defeat before, many times. Another defeat was but one more item on the list.

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

'Head southwest.' he answered 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 went 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 was in sight, they heard warnings.

'Halt, and identify yourself.'

They saw cold light reflecting from the tips of arrows mounted on tense strings, as countless archers revealed themselves on 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, for there was no need. The banners of the House of Fëanor flew high behind him, dazzling in the sunlight, though stained by 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 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 calm tone.

Led by the captain, they climbed the hills of High Faroth and crossed the rapid water of Narog. Their Elven sight revealed to them well-hidden doors on the west bank, behind which numerous caves lay, built by the hands of the Dwarves after the fashion of Menegroth in Doriath. From afar they spotted Finrod in front of the Great Gate, with a silver crown on his golden hair. To their surprise, the eldest son of the House of Finarfin appeared pale and weak, as if seriously wounded. It was only later that they learned if not for the aid of a mortal named Barahir, the King of Nargothrond would have perished before the Fen of Serech.

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

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

(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 a glimpse of a dark figure moving in the woods, he was alone in the wild.

He brought no guard with him when he left Nargothrond. He found himself spreading unusual silence on his way out, for he saw people whispering among themselves until they spotted him. Curufin needs to deal with this, he thought, holding his head high. Meeting their gazes directly, he stared back at them, until one by one they lowered their eyes.

But his steed knew him better. The stallion kept a confident and steady pace until they left the sight of others, and started galloping as soon as they were far enough from the gate. As the hooves beat the ground, his hair was caught in the cold wind, but his face was grim, eyes filled with rage.

Thingol had sent no replies to him so far. In fact, as time went by, it became more and more clear that old Elwë Singollo, sheltered under the power of his wife, would not accept his proposal. Holding his daughter above anything else in the world, the King of Doriath would not give her hand to others easily. Doubtlessly the two suitors as of now had set him beyond wrath: one was a mortal Man he had ever despised, the other a Fëanorian he had ever loathed. At this, he would have laughed had Thingol's daughter not fled from Nargothrond and taken Huan with her.

On both sides of his path, hills and creeks seemed to be flashing backwards. Barren woods of late winter and patches of snow on the ground were blurred into a mixture of dark brown and pale white. He did not notice when the sun disappeared behind the clouds, but the dim 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: 'Do you have any other dog?'

But how could Huan have possibly done this? Did he not always know Huan very well? Of course, he knew that Huan had liked Thingol's daughter and disliked his arrangement for her, but Huan had been loyal to him. It was for him that Huan 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 did Huan leave him for Thingol's daughter, to rescue a short-lived mortal whom the hound had never even known?

Nevertheless, it was undeniable. Thingol's daughter was gone, so was Huan. As soon as they were found missing, he led his guards to go after them but found no trace of them, which was not surprising at all, for Huan was no ordinary hound.

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

Frowning, he listened but was distracted by a dull headache. He had not slept well the night before, for that dream, the dream about her, would never 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. Regardless of his strange tiredness, he was brought to the verge of venting his wrath and frustration, but Curufin spoke before he could, voice icy cold.

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

With that, his anger subsided. Bracing himself, he expected blame, 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 trapped. Along with Huan, she would try to rescue them, and would probably die in the hopeless attempt. To his own surprise, he found himself not nearly as indifferent as expected. Will they survive? Will they succeed? he wondered. Or, will they return?

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

And Curufin demonstrated his great talent in ruling. Rumors about Thingol's daughter were handled so delicately that the truth was only known among a few insiders. Along with Curufin, he continued to openly scorn the authority of Orodreth; watching the Prince Regent of Nargothrond unwillingly bend his golden head, he recovered his pride and confidence. 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 their allegiance to the House of Finarfin standing tame and quiet in the great hall, he could not but listen to a 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 appear. News came from the borders that many strange creatures were found attempting to enter their lands; later, more reports followed and confirmed it in greater detail. He concluded it must be another scheme of Sauron to spy on Nargothrond, and prepared a host in order to put an end to it. However, before they set off to meet the enemies, new reports arrived and turned everything into turmoil. It turned out that those strange creatures were not servants of Sauron but Elves, captured in Dagor Bragollach and enslaved by the enemies. Now they managed to escape from Sauron's dungeons, because an Elven maiden along with a great hound had defeated Sauron the Abhorred and driven him away, and the island once defiled by evil and sorcery was clean again.

Moreover, they claimed that Finrod was not killed upon his capture. It was said that the eldest son of Finarfin fought Sauron using a song of power and remained unidentified though defeated, and was thrown into a deep pit along with his eleven companions. No one knew what had happened down there, but every one believed when the Elven maiden came, Finrod had just passed away.

At such news, the whole kingdom of Nargothrond was shocked. Previous official announcement of Finrod's death conflicted with these tales in every aspect. Rumors spread like wildfire, and speculations rose like an endless tide. He even overheard some careless conversations himself:

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

'Which could be exactly why he did not attempt to rescue Beren, and King Finrod.'

Although most of the speculations were clearly ridiculous, as time went by, some of them came close to the truth. Thingol's daughter must have known who were trapped in Sauron's dungeons; and Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, whom she had trusted, must have learned her reasons of leaving Doriath. But instead of helping her, the two sons of Fëanor chose to tell others that King Finrod was dead, and claimed the kingship of Nargothrond. Such an act constituted treason, treason of kin unto kin. Even if they had had no such intention, the fact that they had made no attempt to rescue their cousin would have still proved their cowardice: valiant warriors as they depicted themselves, they were less courageous than a maiden who had never wielded a sword.

For the second time, the realm mourned for Finrod. He did not know the full impact these events had on him and his brother, but he noticed that people were whispering among themselves everywhere. Even his own following were no better. When his herald was either too bold or too stupid to blurt out his doubts in front of him, he jumped up as a renowned hasty-riser, but did not vent his anger. Instead, he simply went to get his horse and announced that he would go out for a ride, alone. Of course, a lot of concerns were raised about his reckless decision, but he ignored all of them out of spite and mistrust.

Fools! You expect me to go to rescue Finrod, the biggest fool of all? If I had commanded you to risk your own lives to attack Sauron's Isle, would you have been more content? 'Cowards', you dare to call us cowards. But who are the cowards? Merely by words Curufin set so great a fear into your hearts that ever since then you have forsaken open battles; who are the cowards indeed? And who fought on the borders of this realm and drove evil creatures out of your land? Instead of appreciating what we have done to spare your lives, you want to call us cowards? So eager to die as you are, may the evil fire of Morgoth take you all!

The irresponsible curse called his sense back. He absolutely had no intention to wish luck to Morgoth. Wondering what ailed him, he inhaled heavily and told his horse to slow down, and just then he caught a glimpse of a dark figure moving in the woods.

He took up his bow in the blink of an eye, but did not put an arrow to the string, for he noticed his horse was not nervous. The stallion became relaxed yet a little excited, as if he had recognized an old friend.

As he sat straight on horseback and waited, the dark figure reappeared. This time it did not evade him but walked slowly out of the gloom under the trees. When it stopped in front of him, he finally met its eyes - no, his eyes, for those were the eyes he had known so well.

It was Huan.

For a moment an urge almost took him, the urge of jumping off the horse, rushing forward, and holding his partner and friend regardless of what he had decided. If he had believed he was not troubled by Huan's departure, he must have been in denial, for how could he possibly break a brotherly bond that had been so deeply etched into him, or forget it had existed? All the attempts and efforts could only serve to bury it deeper and deeper.

But he remained perfectly still, expressionless, bow in hand. In his heart the soft spot just exposed was now licked by bitter flames, scorching and crackling, as his pride gradually prevailed.

So, you are back. Has she no need of you any more? Or are you finally tired of her?

The hound did not flinch but held his gaze, eyes sparkling in the dim light, filled with sorrow and dignity, yet no regret.

Not until then did he take notice of those unhealed wounds and fresh scars, half hidden in the thick fur. He had never seen Huan wounded like this, not since the hound began to fight at his side. So you truly fought Sauron for her? he dropped all the grudge and wanted to shout into the hound's ears. But I would never allow you to take such a risk and put yourself at stake! How could you have done that? Why are you so stubborn and stupid?

But in the end he said none of them. He simply turned and stated: 'Then, come with me.'

He would never admit that he was grateful to hear from behind Huan's feet breaking the half-melted snow.

The return of Huan seemed to draw little attention in Nargothrond. He left the hound with the healers of his household, but the look in the hound's eyes haunted him as he walked towards his own quarter, until he passed Curufin's chamber.

'I have to ask you, for there is no one else to ask!'

His nephew must be shouting at his brother, based on the fact that the door was closed.

'Do they speak truly about what has happened?'

He could not hear his brother's reply, for despite Celebrimbor's passion, Curufin apparently kept his voice down and remained as calm as ever. With no intention to intervene, he walked on, for he knew better than to try to lecture his brother on how to persuade the youngest prince in the House of Fëanor.

He returned to his own quarter and sat down near the window. He needed no rest, but he could use some peace and quiet. As he got himself comfortable, he heard some faint noise outside, but it subsided after a while.

Little by little, his mind began to wander. He was led into the world that lay between reality and its many shadows, and navigated through vast emptiness and darkness, knowing what to look for though not where to go.

He knew he would see her there, and he did. She appeared ahead, dressed all in white and silver as always, with her back towards him. Now that he had got used to the pain her presence would stir in him, he could take a closer look at her. Instantly, he noticed she was different this time. Her figure was blurred, as if it had been washed away by the river of Time. Can a fire so proud and unruly eventually burn out? he wanted to know. Or maybe I would never know, because her fire, however similar it feels to mine, is never the same?

As if she had sensed his gaze, she turned around.

He gasped. He opened his eyes, but for a second his breath stopped and his heart stuttered, partly out of surprise and partly out of fear. For it was not her. The face he saw, sad but calm, more beautiful than anyone else in the world, belonged to Thingol's daughter.

Still recovering, he heard a knock on the door. To his surprise, the next moment it was opened without his acknowledgement. He jumped up and felt fully justified to rebuke anyone who had dared to intrude like this, but he was again surprised by those who entered. Although dressed like guards, they were not any guards he knew, 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 to him that everyone in the stronghold had been summoned there. Most of them were of the House of Finarfin, and the rest were the following of him and his brother. But at this moment, the difference in their allegiance was put aside, for they all kept silence, intimidating silence that actually posed a threat. As he walked through the crowd towards the High Seat, eyes followed him, and he could feel the weight of their gazes.

When he stopped before the dais, all grew still except shadows cast on the stone walls by numerous lights. His brother was already there; if surprised, Curufinwë Atarinkë did not show it. The favorite son of Fëanor gave no heed to what was around him but fixed his eyes on one, the one who stood in front of the High Seat, with a silver crown shining on his golden head.

Is that Finrod?!

No, it was not Finrod. It was Orodreth - 'King Orodreth', as those insolent guards had said. He could not but sneer at it. If Orodreth had thought he was made King by a crown on his head, he must have gone mad. As the second son of Finarfin, Orodreth had always been a lesser shadow of the eldest: less noble, less wise, less strong in mind, and much less fair in appearance. Some were born to follow, not to lead.

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

He caught sight of movements out of the corner of his eye and immediately recognized them as seasoned warriors, fully armed. From where they were, they made no threat, but their attitude sent a clear message: stay where you are.

Something was wrong. Not until then did he look straight at Orodreth, a cousin he had scorned and overlooked. To his surprise, the Prince Regent of Nargothrond was no longer the weakling he remembered. A fire burned in the golden-haired prince, a fire that he, as a son of Fëanor, recognized and resonated with, that reminded him of Finrod who had cast the silver crown of Nargothrond at his own feet.

It was Curufin who broke the temporary silence. 'If it is the throne to which you refer, Lord Orodreth, I am afraid you have no more claim than my brother does.'

The Prince Regent answered in conceit. 'When the King left, he trusted this kingdom to me and appointed me the Prince Regent here. Now my brother and king is gone, by right I shall take up the kingship, and I shall never allow those who have conspired against him to usurp the kingdom he had founded.'

Curufin raised a brow. 'Who conspired against him?'

Orodreth did not hesitate. 'You, and your brother.'

These words set the whole hall in an uproar. In the deafening noise, someone made his way through the crowd, came to the dais, and stood next to Curufin.

'Lord Orodreth, you have made a serious accusation.' Celebrimbor managed to keep his voice calm, but his eyes sparkled of anxiety. 'Do you have evidence?'

'I have a witness,' Orodreth said, tone softened. 'Whose integrity, I believe, even your uncle cannot deny.'

'Bring him forth then!' he was set off by the unexpected reference.

But Orodreth gave him a strange look, full of pity and disgust. 'As you wish.'

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

He paid no heed to the following accusations made by Orodreth and supplemented by those who had escaped from Sauron's dungeons, because he knew all of them must be true, except the part that said he was enamored of Thingol's daughter, which he would never clarify, for he preferred such rumors over the truth.

He fixed his eyes on Huan regardless of his surroundings. My loyal friend, he thought, finding it ironic beyond measure. Is all that I wish to have and keep doomed to be lost in the most unimaginable fashion?

Huan confirmed everything that he and his brother were accused of, not by words but by nods, though it was widely known that the hound of Valinor was allowed to speak three times in his life. Very well. You wish to waste no precious chances of speaking on us. As his mind swam in a sea of rage and hurt, shouts and cries from the crowd became louder and louder.

'Traitors! Ungrateful traitors!'

'Justice!'

Alerted by those terms, he reached for his sword, only to find it not at his side. But he was rather indignant than afraid, facing a tide of fury and hatred. Fools! Who guarded your realm? Who fought your foes? You say we are ungrateful, but what about you? Are you any better than we are? After all, who rejected their liege lord, and who acquiesced our reign? 'Justice', what are you to judge us? Judge yourselves first!

Orodreth lifted up a hand. Seeing his gesture, the crowd slowly quieted down, waiting for their rightful King to speak.

'King Finrod was my brother.' said Orodreth. '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. If he had not given his life to fulfill his promise, he would have been generous enough to stop pursuing their treason and betrayal.' the King paused. 'But I am not as kind and generous as he was.'

The burst of approval was so great that the King had to lift up 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 stay here, for I would grant neither bread nor rest to traitors! Hereby I say to you, Celegorm and Curufin: Leave, and leave soon; there shall be little love between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor hereafter!'

'Let it be so!' he answered above all the noise, fell and proud. I would not stay here even if you asked me to. The day shall come when you realize what kind of mistake you have made.

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

When they made ready to leave, he did not see Celebrimbor with his brother, nor did he find him in those silently watching their departure, of whom some still bore the Star of Fëanor, his own herald included. He looked at Curufin and read nothing from his brother's face, but however insensitive he was, he knew better than to ask his brother about his nephew then.

He mounted on his horse. He had his bow and arrow on his back, his sword at his side, and his spear hung from the saddle. One by one he looked at those who had followed him but chosen to stay, eyes icy cold. So you have betrayed us, although 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 say thus. From now on, you shall bear not only that evil curse but also this doom I add: the Doom shall find you before me, and you shall be utterly defeated because of the one you trust and support. For your treason, this is the price!

Turning from those hateful faces, he urged his stallion to gallop through the Great Gate.

Along with Curufin, he crossed the many creeks he had crossed when he came, and went over the many hills he had once gone over. He did not slow down until the hidden kingdom of Narog was far behind and out of sight, but then he saw an unexpected follower, trailing them like a sad 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 then, as if he had never seen the hound.

It seemed to be a simple choice, for the power of the House of Fëanor lay mainly in two places: Himring and Amon Ereb. Maedhros along with Maglor still held the fortress of Himring and the lands nearby, while Caranthir along with Amrod and Amras retreated to the South and made their camp at Amon Ereb. But he hesitated before answering. Himring meant Maedhros and obedience, while Amon Ereb meant Caranthir and conflict.

'I suggest Himring.' seeing his hesitation, Curufin said. And seeing his frown, Curufin added: 'Because our eldest brother has the right to know what has happened in Nargothrond and what aid Finrod had planned to offer to a mortal.'

Then he understood. Curufin was right, for he almost forgot the cause of all the trouble: the Silmarils. Finrod had helped someone other than the sons of Fëanor to recover a Silmaril, which was a fact Maedhros would never overlook. Once they had the support of Maedhros, they would have the full support of the remaining strength of the House of Fëanor, which meant nearly half of the Noldor.

'Himring.' He agreed. For that, he supposed he could live with some obedience.

Words in bold are adapted from The Silmarillion.

Chapter 8. Sad But True: Part Two

Thus it came to pass that they headed north. With no escort, they had to choose a short route to avoid enemies as best as they could, for experienced warriors as they were, they were still only two in number - and a hound, if Huan was to be counted. They needed to go first eastward through Talath Dirnen and thence head north along the borders of the Forests of Brethil, and 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 taken the same road from Dimbar to Himlad many years ago, but he would have refused to believe it was a fated route regardless. When he spotted Thingol's daughter in Brethil, he was truly surprised. Even from a distance, her beauty was overwhelming. Against the gloom under the trees she gleamed like a star, and at her side was...

'Kill the mortal and take Lúthien.' said Curufin, all of a sudden. 'Then Doriath will still be ours, and Nargothrond will pay for their mistake.'

His stallion halted almost at the same time as Huan did. He glanced at the hound and saw no sign of protest, but he knew for certain that Huan was deeply troubled by Curufin's proposal, which only made him more inclined to take it, with a cruel pleasure.

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—'

'Deal with the mortal I will.' he snapped. 'But I do not need your instructions.'

Before Curufin could reply, he urged his horse to advance. Contrary to what Curufin suggested, he rode past Beren and turned back, intending to ride him down face to face. With the advantage of being on horseback, he was too proud to attack a mortal from behind.

He heard Lúthien cry as he looked Beren in the eye, and knew Curufin had taken her at unawares. But he was not prepared for what happened next. Her voice transformed the shocked mortal into a formidable warrior. In the blink of an eye Beren disappeared from his sight, faster than any one he had seen or known of, and a burst of yelling and cursing followed. When he managed to make his steed whirl around, Curufin was no longer sitting on the horse but wrestling with Beren on the ground, trying in vain to free himself from the hands that had closed around his neck, while Thingol's daughter was lying on the grass near them and Curufin's horse was neighing frantically at her side.

With Curufin clearly getting suffocated, he simply jerked his spear from the saddle and urged his steed to charge against Beren's undefended back.

A roar came then, great and terrible, full of wrath.

Startled, his horse swerved and reared up. He was caught off guard and had to drop his spear to grab the horse's mane, but before he could steady himself, he saw who had stopped him: once again, it was Huan.

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

Not any more, the hound responded. This time in Huan's eyes there was no sorrow but disappointment and rage. Without a second warning, Huan roared again and sprang at him.

Despite all his urging and cursing, his horse retreated hastily in fear. 'You, both of you, shall pay for your betrayal!' he spluttered, but neither the hound nor the horse paid heed to what he said, while Curufin's struggle became feebler and weaker. In the extreme of his exasperation, he drew his sword.

'Stop!' just then a voice cut in, soft yet clear. 'Beren, stop!'

He turned his head and saw Thingol's daughter. Back on her feet, she had rushed to Beren's side. 'Do not kill him,' she held the mortal's arm. 'He shall not be ended by your hand.'

Her voice had an immediate effect on the mortal. Though unwillingly, Beren released Curufin. 'But he shall not leave freely.' he said in a voice harsh to the Elven ears. 'He has no honor; therefore I grant him no respect.'

Not without effort, gasping and coughing, Curufin sat up, while Beren mercilessly stripped him off all his gear and weapons, including the knife wrought by Telchar of Nogrod.

Not until then did he exhale secretly with relief. He had not expected Thingol's daughter to spare Curufin's life. Yet more to his surprise, she left Beren's side and made several steps towards him. Dirt and blood only served to exalt her immortal beauty, which illuminated the glade around them.

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

Save your lecture, he retorted, in the same manner. And save your judgment of me, for you are no holier than I am. Go with your mortal, and keep in mind what you will suffer down the road.

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

At that he was indignant. 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? Once again, he was set beyond rage, as he always had been in front of her. 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 interactions, Beren pulled Curufin to his feet and relentlessly flung him forward.

With visible marks of black and blue on the neck, Curufin walked towards him and staggered a little; but just when he thought his brother might be temporarily incapable of speech, Curufin turned to face Beren and cursed, voice hoarse and dripping in venom. 'Go hence, unto a swift and bitter death!' (2)

He bent down and helped his brother mount on his horse. When Curufin settled behind him, he felt Curufin's fingers digging into his back but paid no heed to it, for his attention was still occupied by her. He was burned by a strong desire of killing them, all of them: the mortal, the hound, and Thingol's daughter. He had never suffered such insult in his life. But he was unable to take action, for he was troubled by the way she looked at him, as if once again she had read him through.

Probably having sensed his internal conflict, Curufin leaned forward and whispered into his ear. 'Let us go, my brother.'

He took Curufin's suggestion mechanically. As he instructed his horse to turn north, he caught a last glimpse of her. She had turned away from him, but at her side Huan still watched him, eyes vigilant.

Just then he felt a lift on his back. Before he could react, Curufin had shot an arrow from his bow, aiming at Thingol's daughter. Many things happened next and resulted in a disaster. Huan jumped up like a lightning and caught the first arrow, but had no time to intercept a second one. It was Beren who stepped in and took the hit. The arrow smote into the mortal's chest, and blood spilled like a crimson flower.

'What have you done?!' Astounded, he shouted at Curufin in disbelief, but Curufin simply kicked his horse hard. The stallion started galloping just in time to escape from a furious Huan, who chased them long and hard. When they finally rid themselves of the pursuer and came to a stop, the horse was covered by sweat, and the riders were worn.

He tended his stallion for a while before blurting out: 'You should not have attempted to kill her.'

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

He was silenced by Curufin's instant retort. Both of them said no more for the rest of the journey. Not until the great walls of Himring was in sight did Curufin speak again, voice with a bit of raucity, but icy cold. 'At least now the mortal is dead.'

It turned out that even Curufin's judgment could be wrong after all. The mortal did not die; instead, he went to accomplish a deed praised by all. Beren and Lúthien passed through all perils and made it to Angband, and together they took 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 was a host ready to march, a host constituted of all the Noldor in East Beleriand, Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod, and Swathy Men who had sworn their allegiance to the House of Fëanor. But few of them were formerly under his command, for no one came to join them from Nargothrond.

'Send to the Commander and ask how much longer we have to wait.' he told Lachodir, his new herald. Lachodir repeated it and immediately passed it down.

Lachodir volunteered to enter his service soon after he and Curufin reached Himring. 'Perhaps you do not remember it, my lord, but you saved my life in battle, not once but twice. May I have the honor of serving you once again?' He had saved many lives in battle, and thus remembered nothing about this particular case; but why would he turn him away? With all his people left behind, he needed a herald at the least. And Lachodir did not disappoint him. Young in age as he was, Lachodir showed no sign of inexperience, and at times even impressed him with competence and commitment.

He wondered why Maedhros had delayed the attack. His eldest brother could be patient if necessary, but was doubtlessly decisive in warfare. Before they came to Himring, Maedhros had learned of Thingol's daughter, for the King of Doriath had sent to Himring demanding assistance to find her after she escaped from Nargothrond. Yet, to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move after learning all that had happened from Curufin. When tidings came that Thingol's daughter along with her mortal lover had recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth, Maedhros sent to Menegroth demanding it be returned to its rightful owners. When his claim was denied, yet again to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move. Busy establishing a great union, Maedhros took an approach more acceptable to others: to muster all their strength and challenge Morgoth in war. However, Maedhros did not restrain him and Curufin from issuing open threats to Thingol and his people. Maybe Curufin saw the truth in it: 'Because once we take back the other two Silmarilli, Maitimo would have to do the same.'

So here they were, waiting in the Gasping Dust for a last defining battle. Banners of all colors danced in the morning wind, and the Star of Fëanor could be seen shining everywhere, almost blinding in the sunlight of midsummer.

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

He nodded and surveyed his host again. When he accidentally looked an Easterling in the eye, the dark-skinned Man lowered his eyes in haste, as if he had been burnt by the Elven gaze. Seeing this, he frowned and turned his face 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 in Men. As if he had witnessed it! And if he has scorned the House of Arafinwë all his life, how can he come to trust a lesser and weaker race? But Maedhros deemed all support precious, which 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 put to an end, though not in the way they had expected.

The power of Morgoth was terrible and vast indeed, but the Enemy did not win by Dragons, Balrogs, or numerous Orcs. The Dark Lord had sealed his victory long before the battle started, because 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 put all their effort to an end.

But there was no time for him to reflect amid a heated battle, not to mention that reflection was never his strength. We lost, he judged as the turncloaks approached Maedhros's standard. We must retreat; otherwise we will all perish here. He shouted his order of retreat at the top of his lungs, looking for Lachodir to pass down his command. Even as he found his herald fighting ahead, an overwhelming pain took him from behind.

Lowering his eyes, he saw a blood-stained spear-point sticking out of his chest. With great effort, he turned his head and caught a glimpse of a sneering troll. Losing consciousness, he realized he had made a mistake. He was careless, for he had forgotten that the loyal shadow that had always guarded his back was not there any more.

When he came to himself, he was no longer in the battlefield but in a glade, lying on the ground. Lachodir sat next to him, covered with blood, sword dented and armor notched. Other soldiers rested nearby, but no voice was heard. A misty chill hung in the air, unlike midsummer.

He stirred, and Lachodir instantly turned to him. Seeing him awake, his herald was visibly relieved. But he did not look at Lachodir. There was a lifeless lump in a puddle near the edge of the glade, white coat and silver mane stained with dark blood. It was his stallion.

Following his gaze, Lachodir hesitated before speaking. 'It was your horse who had carried you here on his back, my lord.'

He began coughing. The taste of his own blood was so strange that he almost vomited. However, he pushed away Lachodir's helping hands and squeezed out words from his lips, feeling a scalding pain in his throat as well as in his heart. 'Then, I will need a new steed.'

Many years later, when he entered a defenseless Doriath on the back of a different white stallion, the fire burning in his heart was colder than the biting wind of winter.

I will finish what is left.

But what was left? It seemed that all his curses had taken effect, by some cruel designs of fate. Huan died, because he fought Morgoth's wolf to the death for a mortal Man. His steed died, because he gave him own life to save his master from the Nirnaeth. Beren died, along with Thingol's daughter; although 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 perished; those who had renounced the House of Fëanor were brought to death by someone they had trusted, just as he had foretold. Thingol was murdered, and Melian left Middle-earth; Doriath was open to foes, and the splendid halls of Menegroth were sacked by greedy Dwarves. If Dior the Half-elven had not taken over his grandfather's kingdom and vowed to renew its glory, the once great Hidden Kingdom would have been no more.

What was left to be done? An oath of recovering the jewels wrought by his father, and a threat of destroying a realm.

And it chanced that both could be achieved by a single move.

He stirred up his brothers to prepare an assault upon Doriath, as tales would tell afterwards; but bound by their oath, the sons of Fëanor were left no choice when Dior refused to give up the Silmaril, which Maedhros knew as well as he did. Thus they came, in the depth of winter, at a time he chose, although Maedhros claimed they came not for the ruin of Doriath but for the Silmaril they owned by right and vowed to regain at all costs.

Meeting little resistance, they soon saw the great bridge over the river of Esgalduin. At the other end of the bridge was the Great Gate of Menegroth, and beyond that lay the marvelous city of Thousand Caves, the heart of Doriath. The Grey Elves had received warnings by then, and assembled a host in haste. But it took him but one glance to find the one he came for, for the Heir of Thingol was not hiding behind but waiting in front of the gate.

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

Dior fought better than he had expected. He should have known it, for the Half-elven's father was Beren Erchamion, a mortal who had been wanted by Morgoth so badly that a price was set for his head, who had escaped from the fire of Bragollach and survived the betrayal of his own kin, who had wandered alone in the perilous highland and gone through mountains and valleys of terror, who had entered Doriath despite the Girdle of Melian, who had almost strangled Curufin with his bare hands, and at last, who had achieved a deed that no one had dared to imagine: retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth on his throne, along with his lover. It was a pity that he, Celegorm son of Fëanor, had never met him in single combat.

If he had, it would have been better for him, for at least it would have sounded more acceptable if he had died by Beren's hand than his son's.

He took a step back, lowered his eyes, and saw blood gushing out from his chest. He knew it was fatal, and his end was close at hand.

I pity you, a voice whispered in his mind then.

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

When he fell, he felt no pain and had little concern of the shadow of the Everlasting Dark, for maybe he had never been truly hard-pressed by their oath. When he decided to leave Finrod to die in Sauron's dungeons and usurp the kingship of Nargothrond, was he simply driven by a desire over the Silmaril? When he vowed to destroy Doriath and came to make it happen, was he merely obsessed of regaining the Great Jewel?

When he set the ships to fire in Losgar, plotted his retaliation in Himlad, or attempted to send the one he had loved to death once and again, did he think of the Oath at all?

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

He closed his eyes. The figure that had haunted his dreams suddenly became crystal clear. Against endless darkness she was dazzling like a star, beautiful beyond measure, so close and so remote all at once.

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

He wanted to lift up his hand to touch her, only to find he could not.

...Knowing more about animals than people...

But did he really know animals that well? He thought of Huan then, another shadow that had haunted him. Did he know Huan well? Did he know why Huan had given his own life to save a mortal Man? Did he know why Huan had chosen to leave him in the end, after forsaking the Blessed Realm for him and choosing a path of exile and danger?

He did not know, and probably would not know either. As for people, he knew less indeed. Aredhel - no, Irissë: Did he know her well? He must have loved her, but he had never known what she wanted from him, how she could have approached him yet evaded him, or why she had taken a paranoid Dark Elf for her husband who had eventually taken her life. Did he know Curufin? Did his brother merely use him as a weight on the scales of power? Had this been true, why would Curufin have advised him to reconsider his decision about her in Rerir? And did he know Lachodir? As he fell, he heard his herald's voice swearing to avenge him at all costs, but what had he done to earn such blind loyalty, or what had he done to deserve it?

Maybe it was just as ironic as it appeared: what you neglect often surprises you, while what you trust betrays you in the end. Or, it might be all the opposite: what you trust betrays you, because you believe they will never betray you regardless of what you do; and what you neglect surprises you, because in them you never have the expectation.

I pity you, the voice whispered again.

Is that what you truly meant, Lúthien?

Lúthien. In his last moment he finally called her by her name. Lúthien Tinúviel. To him she had always been 'Thingol's daughter', although he knew her name as well as others did. Did he truly hate her? He did not know. All he knew was that in some way she had touched his heart, not with her beauty - for that, ironically, they did share something in common: Lúthien the fair, and Celegorm the fair. But did he love her? If he did, how could a son of Fëanor have loved twice in his life? But if it was not love, what was it? A yearning for something he had forever lost, or had never even owned?

He was losing consciousness. He could not tell if the faint calls from afar were merely his illusion. But even if he could stay awake, he would not be able to answer these questions.

Because he had never known himself.

When the Everlasting Dark was falling upon him, to his own surprise, he laughed, for himself, for all that he had done.

Is that because of myself then? Is it because of myself that all I wish to have and keep is doomed to be lost, in the most unimaginable fashion?

He had much time to find an answer before the End.

(The End)

(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.

Postscript

When I began to write Sad But True, I thought I would simply provide more background and motivation for a supporting character in The Silmarillion to fill the gap, but the tale grew in the telling, and I ended up writing a fairly long story for him (for one whose first language is not English, it felt long indeed).

In this story, I gave him more character and emotions, even his own set of reasons, to free him from the role of a simple villain in the book. However, I do not mean to justify or support any of his deeds. I do not deny that I had the intention of casting a different light on him in the beginning, but after evaluating all the 'facts' and setting them in a background of love (the most 'reasonable' way I could come up with), I still found him unforgivable in the end. After all, 'Love is sweet, but it cannot change a man's nature'.

Again, the story is, though not groundless, merely one interpretation of 'history' and has no claim on the 'truth'. I am by no means advocating it as the only possibility.

Extra Chapter: Time Enough for Love

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 taking the trouble to answer, he simply urged his stallion to advance. From where he was, the edge of the woods was in sight, and the sound of the river could be easily heard. Mist over the running water had drifted into the woods, floated past trunks and branches, and gradually filled the space between dark brown and deep green with a thick, milky white.

Why did Huan even question it? As his stallion increased the pace, he took in hand his spear that was hung from the saddle. It is but three Orcs, nothing more.

In all conscience, his confidence was not unfounded.

He fell upon the Orcs on the bank and caught them off guard. He saw the horrified look on their faces and took satisfaction in it. They reeked of the fear of death before they could make a sound, and of course he would leave them no chance of shouting a warning. When one of them mouthed 'Golug', his spear had already penetrated its throat. An arrow hit an eye of the next. If not for the consideration that he had no wish of brushing his steed thoroughly afterwards, he would have let the third die under the hooves.

Pulling out his sword from a lifeless body was usually a disgusting experience, but he was fine with it, for his sword was never easily stained. It was made by his father, the greatest craftsman of the Noldor; although it had gone through countless killings and drunk immeasurable blood, it was still as sharp as new, clear like a mirror.

Just then, something fell out of the bushes and rolled all the way to the pebbled strand where he stood. Startled, he instantly tightened his fingers around his sword hilt, but then released it, relaxed once more; for he realized it was merely 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 face. The cause of death of that unhappy Orc was obvious: no one could survive if his neck were twisted into such a weird angle.

You were careless, answered the hound.

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

A large shadow leaped over thick bushes and came to him in the blink of an eye. Instead of being alert, his stallion snuffled a greeting, for it was Huan, the hound of Valinor and their loyal partner.

'Perhaps I should arrange for cleaning up specifically after you, Turko.'

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

'Tell them to wait then, for there are another five.' he sheathed his sword and turned to his brother. 'It is still beyond me that they could made such a fuss over a few Orcs back in Nargothrond!'

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

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

'Hopefully,' Curufin said, with a tendril of smile on his lips.

Since Finrod departed, things had been good for some time, until trouble was reported from the borders. Creatures of Morgoth and spies of Sauron flushed from the Isle of Werewolves into the south, and Talath Dirnen was turned into a region haunted by wild wolves and Orcs. Every one agreed that it was important to find out why the Enemy became unusually active all of a sudden, but every time the topic of arranging for an investigation came up, the secretive, peace-loving people of Finrod would fall silent all together. In the end, he had to go himself, along with Curufin and their own guards who had come with them to Nargothrond after Bragollach.

In light of that, it might not be 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 of recovering the Guarded Plain had been successful. They had not discovered the Enemy's motivation yet, but their ruthless approach had taken immediate effect - at least spending a night in the wild became much less dangerous. Having returned peace and order to the land, they planned to go back the next day, so he decided to give Huan leave to enjoy hunting alone. Therefore, after a simple dinner, there were only him and Curufin left at the campfire.

'What news of the east?' He unplugged a wine skin and poured some dark red liquid into his brother's cup. A messenger from East Beleriand found them during the day and was, as a rule, received by Curufin.

'Maitimo and Makalaurë continue to hold Himring, while Moryo and our Ambarussa twins have decided to make Amon Ereb their base.' Curufin thanked him and took up the cup. 'It seems that they can take care of themselves. It is also said that many mortal Men went to swear allegiance to Moryo, which I find a little interesting.'

'Men?' he frowned. He had met few mortal Men, and thus had been indifferent about them, though the one who came to Nargothrond uninvited did not help improve his impression.

'Moryo seems to think they have some virtue.' Curufin took a sip of the wine and watched him serving himself. 'Maybe the influence of Haleth is greater than I had expected.'

'Haleth?' he repeated the name, for it sounded familiar. 'I remember once there were some Men who wished to cross the land of Himlad and go westward, before Bragollach. Was their leader…'

'It was her.' Curufin confirmed. 'She was the leader of the Haladin, and that was when she declined Moryo's offer and left Thargelion.'

He tried to recall her appearance, but could not think of much, except that she seemed to be very similar to other Men. She was not beautiful - most of Men were not beautiful in the eyes of the Eldar - nor was she impressive, by his standards. If there was anything special about her, it would be her female bodyguard, taller and stronger than most. 'She declined Moryo's offer?' he asked in disbelief. 'And Moryo took no offense? I thought he has quite a temper.'

'It is between him and her.' Curufin said, and poured a little more wine. The campfire crackled at their side; occasionally, sparks leaped out and disappeared nearby in the grass sprinkled with dew, like short-lived fireflies in the fields of summer.

He asked no more, but drank more. Whatever Caranthir had felt about the mortal woman, appreciating or loathing, he knew better than to judge them. After all, to sort out confusing relationships like this, it would probably require a renowned scholar and philosopher such as Finrod - of course, that was to say, if that golden head had not turned into a hot head who insisted on helping a mortal to recover a Silmaril.

'I wonder what has come of Finrod.' he said.

Curufin looked at him and slightly shook his head. 'I had hoped to gather some tidings to answer this question, but now it seems impossible, for you and Huan have 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 he heard himself.

Pain assaulted him from the inside, while the cool wine that had moistened his throat before suddenly lit a fire in his chest. Summoning all the strength he had, he resisted trembling and cursed himself, as he did in the past. It has been such a long time; why will you not simply forget? Why do you keep her words on your lips, as if she still lived?

'Turko?'

Curufin's voice sounded remote and indistinct, but it penetrated the barrier of his mind and woke his faintest memories. Little by little, a figure emerged from those deeply buried days, with shining dark hair and bright grey eyes, slender by the standards of the Noldor. What did Curufin call her? How did Curufin introduce her to him? He was a little uneasy then, meeting the maiden his brother was in love with; but her smile soon lowered his guard.

He recognized her, for she was Curufin's wife, Celebrimbor's mother. Long ago she refused to join their exile, and now she remained on the other side of the Sea. Ever since they set foot on the Hither Lands, Curufin had not mentioned her name, not even once.

But how was it possible? How could his brother manage to cut all the ties with the past and never regret it?

Doubts along with wine burned in his mind, like a fire feeding on hay. Tossing back his head, he blurted out a question before realizing it: 'Your wife, Kurvo - you loved her, did you not?'

With that, the cup in his brother's hand shattered. Even the wind seemed to have stopped. For a moment, they stared at each other, while dark liquid dripped from his brother's long fingers, and there was no way to tell whether it was wine or blood.

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

'Of course I love her.'

Curufin said, just when he thought Curufin would not answer. Sharp pieces fell from his brother's hand, some of which were blood-stained, but there was no wound on that elegant hand, for the silence was long enough for all the 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? They both had loved and continued to love, but believing it was their own choice, they both had to let go in the end. But if that were true, were they not both stupid beyond measure?

He had thought they would never fall into this trap. For the Firstborn, must there not always be time enough for love? Before the life of Arda itself reached an end and the river of Time came to a stop, would he not find her at last? Someday he would look her in the eye and repeat his words, words that were so simple and so hard, said once on the plains of Valinor and again in the mist of Araman, and no longer needed to be spoken on the ice field of Helcaraxë, in Irmo's domain.

But he was wrong, completely wrong.

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

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

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

She must have known it, otherwise why would she have approached him yet evaded him, and chosen 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 extremely familiar syllables on his lips, unable to tell whether it tasted like love or hatred. You would admit no defeat, but would flee instead? Why were you so determined to torture me, for which you would use everything you had?

There was no answer.

Of course there would be no answer. She was gone, this time truly beyond the Hither Lands. Nevertheless, he could not but extend his thought to the West, knowing it would be in vain but wanting to attempt it regardless, just because he wished to see once again her face. On the other side of the Sundering Sea, in the silent Halls of Waiting, at a corner where he could not see, hear, or feel, would she sense him calling?

Now on the Guarded Plain, under a starless sky, he suddenly wished to know if the Halls of Mandos were nearly as dark.

This is an extra chapter that was not included in the main plot.

The chapter title belongs to Robert Heinlein.